Just Dinner
by WikketKrikket
Summary: Iron Man is a vigilante, mercenary and murderer. He is also, quite clearly, Tony Stark; even if the authorities can't make it stick. Peter Parker is nearly four, dying, and Iron Man's biggest fan. They say there's no way Iron Man would come to his birthday party, but Steve isn't one to give up. Even if it does mean he has to go to dinner with a man he'd rather punch in the face.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I have been posting this story over on Ao3 for a while, but I thought I would put it up here too :) Fair warning- Updates will be slow, but I hope to get to the end eventually. Thanks for reading!

 **STARK IN SHOCK ANNOUNCEMENT**

 _Just hours after returning to the US, billionaire Industrialist Tony Stark announces he is liquidating his company_

Less than 48 hours ago, news broke that Tony Stark had at last been retrieved alive from his captivity after going missing in January this year. In a statement released at the time, Obediah Stane, who had been filling in for Mr Stark, asked journalists to respect Mr Stark's privacy and his need to rest following his ordeal. It seems, however, that Mr Stark had other ideas.

Within quarter of an hour of Mr Stark's arrival on US soil, this publication received an invitation to an urgent press conference. Less than two hours later, Mr Stane announced Mr Stark to a room packed with the hastily assembled media. In many ways, Mr Stark looked unchanged; still impeccably dressed in an Armani suit, his beard and hair neatly groomed and presented. However, having visibly lost weight and with his left arm in a noticeable sling, it was obvious that his ordeal had taken its toll. Nor did Mr Stark present the customary charm we have come to expect from him, forgoing his usual easy-going friendliness in favour of a firm, authoritarian manner as he made his statement without allowing for questions or interruptions until the end.

Mr Stark did not explain the circumstances of his escape and refused to comment on rumours that he utilised a weaponised suit of body armour. Instead, in a move that surprised everyone, he explained openly how he had seen Stark Industries products in what he described as 'the wrong hands'. He announced that he was therefore firing all of his senior management officials and stopping all further production, effective immediately, whilst he begins the process of dissolving the company entirely. You can read the full statement here.

It is unclear what the legal ramifications of the announcement will be as Stark Industries is a board and shareholder controlled company. However, when asked whether they would go along with his decision, Mr Stark simply said he would 'handle it'.

Stark Industries share prices have already fallen more than forty points, losing more ground on an hourly basis as news of the shake-up spreads. If Mr Stark follows through with his intention to disband the company entirely it will be at the cost of thousands of jobs nationally and almost 100,000 worldwide; the worse job losses since the financial crash of 2008.

First to go, it is alleged, is Miss Pepper Potts, personal assistant to Mr Stark, who was instrumental in sustaining the company during Mr Stark's absence. Although she was not included in the original list of higher level executives included in the blanket firing, witnesses report that she was seen arguing with Mr Stark after the conference and was told to clear out her office.

It is understood that members of Stark Industries' board will mount a legal challenge concerning Mr Stark's mental competency, but as he has already been debriefed and cleared by representatives of the military, FBI and CIA this is unlikely to succeed. It seems that there will be a long and messy legal battle ahead and a further period of uncertainty for the employees and investors of Stark Industries.

 _Christina Wenzel, 28_ _th_ _April 2010_


	2. Chapter 2

Steve hesitated outside the door to the bar, more so he could tell himself he had than out of any sense of indecision. Six months ago he would never even have considered this, but it was not six months ago, and time was running out. This might be the only chance he had.

 _It's for Peter,_ he told himself, and he pushed through inside.

He had gone soft, since this most recent hospitalisation. There had been a time when he had tried to actively discourage Peter's hero-worship of Iron Man, tried to explain that _no, the man flying around on the TV is not a super hero, even if his robot suit is 'really cool'_ , but it was very difficult to explain the concepts of vigilantism and appropriate force to a three year old, even one as smart as Peter. The faces on the news might as well have been cartoon characters to him. They were criminals, which meant they were Bad Guys, and if Iron Man killed Bad Guys, that meant, quid pro quo (a phrase Peter had actually _used_ and Steve still didn't really know what it meant), that Iron Man must be a Good Guy. Even if all the Bad Guys in question had done as shoplift $20 worth of cigarettes from a convenience store and happened to catch Iron Man's eye.

But to Peter, Iron Man was a hero who saved the day, and Steve couldn't take that away from him. Not now. And while six months ago he would never have endorsed anything that perpetuated that image, if an Iron Man duvet cover from Redbubble meant Peter would sleep at night, Steve would buy him a damn Iron Man duvet cover. If a red-and-gold paint job meant Peter would let him connect the oxygen tank at night, Steve would paint it red-and-gold. Steve had been forced to learn the hard way over the last few years that principles were a luxury. He would never have considered coming to a place like this, otherwise.

The place was undoubtedly a dive, lit by neon tubes and exposed light bulbs. Everyone at the sticky tables seemed to either be there alone, glaring at anyone who came near, or in twos and threes piled in each other's laps, drunkly making out. It was not the sort of place one would expect to find a billionaire, but Steve's Google Alert had told him Tony Stark had been sighted here, so Steve had to at least check it out. He was not invited to the same sort of clubs, parties and restaurants that Tony Stark was, and waiting outside them had got him nothing but the odd punch from a bouncer or bodyguard. But this bar was the sort of place that would let anyone in and not tell anyone you had been there, and so Steve had left Peter dozing off over a colouring book at the hospital and rushed over. It was three in the afternoon.

There was a loud, sizeable crowd of very young, very drunk, very scantily clad beautiful women in the back corner of the room. It seemed like his tip off may actually pay off. Suddenly wondering what he was going to say, Steve worked his way over to them between the tightly-packed tables. His passage didn't escape their notice, as the women turned to look at him. He began to feel a bit self-concious.

But he was there. As one of the women turned for a better view, Steve saw Tony Stark sitting on the couch that ran along the walls, wearing sunglasses even in the dark room, the light in his chest casting the area around him in a ghostly blue aura. He had a blonde girl on one knee seemingly _licking_ his neck and a red head on the other, idly stroking his chest as she watched Steve without any interest. Steve felt his mouth dry out. Were they high? This was a bad idea.

But it was for Peter. He would just have to tell Stark not to bring the girls with him if he agreed.

'Excuse me,' he said, finally near enough. 'Mind if I join you?'

Stark removed one arm from around the red-head's waist to remove his sunglasses, and surveyed Steve.

'Damn,' he said, looking him up and down. The girls giggled. 'Be my guest.' He gestured benevolently at the chair on the opposite side of the table as if he owned the place. Steve did not like his expression one bit, but he sat anyway. He just had to get straight down to business.

'Thank you. Mr Stark, my name is Captain Rogers, I was wondering if I could-'

' _Captain_?' Stark groaned with apparent pleasure. 'I knew he would be military. And it's not even my birthday.'

The blonde paused in her licking. 'You said it _was_ your birthday,' she pouted.

'Did I? Well, as far as you know, it is.'

'I was wondering if I could talk to you about my godson, Peter,' Steve said more loudly. 'He's a great kid. It's his birthday on Friday, he'll be four. He's a huge fan of Iron Man.'

'Oh, great, me too,' Stark said. 'I'm a big, big, fan. What a great guy. I bet I'm higher in the fan club than your kid.'

The girls laughed like this was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Steve did not laugh. It was widely known that Stark _was_ Iron Man, it could hardly have been any more obvious, but the authorities could never catch him or find proof definitive enough to make it stick. Steve definitely had feelings about this, but he forced himself to push on with what he had come here to say.

'The thing about Pete is, he's, well, he's sick. Friday is, well, it's probably the last birthday he's going to have and...' Steve took a deep breath. No. He was not going to break down in front of this man. 'When the people from Make a Wish foundation asked him what he wanted, he said he wanted to meet the real-life Iron Man. He wants to meet you, Mr Stark.'

Stark said nothing, watching Steve with an incredulous expression. Steve took this as a sign that he ought to continue.

'Well, the Wish Foundation told him it couldn't be done, and so did I, but... he was so upset. He said he wasn't, but he was. He's never asked me for anything, seriously, never asked me for so much as a candy bar, and, well, I just had to try myself. We wouldn't take much of your time, or, or tell anyone where you were, I just know it would make him so happy if you could-'

Stark held up a hand to stop the flow of his speech, shooing the girls off his knees and sending the whole pack of them back towards the bar. Then he leered at Steve. There really was no other word for it.

'That's not how it works, sweetheart.'

'I understand it's an unusual request, but-'

'No,' Stark interrupted, grinning over at him. 'You want your wish granted, you got to sit on Santa's knee and convince him you're a _good boy.'_ He patted his leg in a beckoning motion.

Steve gaped at him stupidly for a moment, then drew his jaw tightly closed, locking his knees so he wouldn't just get up and walk out of there. This man was intolerable. But he hadn't even asked his question yet, and Peter this so badly.

'Look,' Steve said, trying not to lose his patience. 'He's only a kid. It would mean the world to him if you could just put in an appearance.'

Apparently realising that there was no way Steve was about to climb into his lap, Stark seemed to lose interest, taking his glass from the table and knocking back the dregs of whatever was inside it instead.

'Tell your kid to find some better heroes,' he said, taking his phone out of his pocket and playing with it. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was clearly over. But Steve just couldn't leave it at that.

'I've tried, believe me. Nothing works, he's obsessed with you. I think it's because he likes the science behind the suit. He draws all these pictures...' Steve fumbled in his pocket, sure he had brought one. He found the piece of paper and unfolded it, so Stark could see. On it were some red and yellow shapes, mostly crude rectangles, with a smiley face. Next to them were some blue and red scribbles, loosely arranged in the shape of a person. Beneath it, a staff nurse had written 'Iron Man and his sidekick Super Peter'.

Stark glanced at it, then snorted in amusement before going back to his phone. 'He doesn't have a future as an artist, does he?' He laughed.

Steve couldn't help it. He didn't even think. It was just that the next thing he knew, he was on his feet, his fists curled into the collar of Stark's shirt, the table overturned between them. Steve had no memory of how he had got from the one situation to the other, but found he wasn't displeased about it. He slammed Stark back against the wall.

'Don't you dare laugh at him!' He roared. 'Of course he doesn't have a future as an artist! He doesn't have _any_ future! He is dying! Haven't you caused enough suffering in your miserable little life?! When was the last time anyone else genuinely wanted to spend time with you?! Would one good deed, making one dying little boy happy for ten minutes, cost you so much?! What the hell is wrong with you?!'

For a moment, he actually thought he had gotten through. Stark's eyes seemed to clear, but then cloud back into confusion. He wondered again if Stark was on something, some drug Steve didn't know about, but then he blinked and the haze had gone, replaced with cocky amusement.

'I knew you'd be hot when you're angry, babe,' he said. 'Look at this manly clenched jaw.' He patted Steve's cheek, and Steve dropped him in disgust. This was useless. Well, he thought bitterly, this was hardly the sort of person he wanted anywhere near Peter anyway, even if it was the thing Peter wanted most in the world. He turned to leave.

'Wait,' Stark said. 'Hold up there, blue-eyes. I never said I wouldn't do it.'

'Then you will?'

'I have conditions.'

'Make a Wish already drew up a confidentiality agreement,' Steve said quickly. 'No cameras, no publicity, no social media, no authorities-'

'No, no,' Stark said, 'Well, _yes,_ all of that, but my actual condition is this. If I show up at this kid's birthday party on Friday, _you_ come to dinner with me on Saturday.' Steve's feelings obviously showed on his face, because Stark's smirk widened and he continued. 'Oh, don't worry, Princess. I'll be on my best behaviour. You can tell your Pop I'll have you home by curfew.'

Steve knew he ought to say no. Every ounce of pride and sense he had was telling him to say no. This was a bad idea. He needed to say no.

'Fine,' he said.

Principles – and pride – were a luxury he could no longer afford. It was only dinner. It would be worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve had been there for every one of Peter's birthdays, including the first actual-birth day. He had been in Peter's life from the very start, and it had begun with the kindness of Peter's parents.

He hadn't wanted to see Richard. In fact, he had simply not turned up to the first three appointments that were made for him, until Fury had told him that he would not sign off his clearance to leave the base until he was classed as fit by a Shield psychologist. At first Steve had thought, bitterly, that that would be just fine with him; he didn't want to go out in this strange world of the future, he wanted to go _home_ , but then he realised to his horror that he was wallowing and made an appointment with a counsellor the same day.

That first appointment was very brief, and very unlike the mental examinations he had had to do in preparation for the serum. He was not made to lie down on a couch and stare at a wallpapered ceiling. Nobody asked him who the president was (which was a good thing as he had no idea). There were no intelligence tests, no ink blots, no intrusive questions about what he thought about his mother, his father, sex; none of the things, in short, that had made Steve so reluctant to go in the first place. In fact, that first appointment lasted less than two minutes and consisted only of three questions:

'Hi, you must be Steve. I'm Richard, welcome. Have a seat.'

'Nice to meet you,' Steve had said, not meaning it. They'd shaken hands, which he had appreciated, it had made the meeting feel more normal. Still, he had sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, wondering if Richard was about to start making notes on his grip shaking hands or his choice of seat. Richard didn't.

'So, how are you doing?'

'Fine.'

'Really? This must all be very challenging.'

'Yes, but I'm fine.'

'Good. Is there anything you'd like to talk about today?'

'No.'

And that was it. They shook hands again and Steve left, thinking that getting cleared to leave would be easier than he had thought.

Over the next week, Steve kept bumping into Richard as life on the base flowed around him. They'd meet in the cafeteria queue or end up in the library or gym at the same time. Richard introduced Steve to his wife, Mary, who was just as amicable as him. They, unlike the rest of Shield, didn't seem to be in awe of Captain America. There was no wall between them. The second appointment was slightly longer.

'Morning, Steve. How are you today?'

'Still fine. You? How's Mary?'

'We're both well. Mary's still reeling from those awful fishcakes they served yesterday.'

'I ate better hiding in a cave from the gestapo.'

They both laughed.

'So, Steve, is there anything particular you wanted to talk about today?'

'No. Well, no, not a brain thing, but...'

'But?'

'Well. I want a job. I've never been idle. I know Fury would never clear me to go on missions and, um, I don't want to do that yet. I don't think I want to do that yet. But there must be something useful I can do around here.'

'You mean sweeping floors? Cleaning toilets?'

'What do you think I did before the army?'

'I thought you were an art student.'

'I was, and the best boots-boy in Brooklyn to pay for it.'

They laughed again, Richard promised to see what he could do, they shook hands and Steve left. That was it.

The next day he received three things: a standard-issue Shield uniform, a rota of 'light duties' and an invitation to play chess with Richard that evening. He was grateful for the uniform, because he was pretty tired of standing out as the only one in civilian clothing. It might be made from a strange future material, and an even stranger cut, but a uniform was a uniform. As soon as he put it on, he felt better. He felt part of something that made some sort of sense. Things felt more manageable.

The duties were easy enough, too, comprising everything from mopping floors and wiping down tables to setting up chairs and tables for meetings and putting them away again. Nothing too difficult, but enough to keep him busy, keep him out of his room and, more importantly out of his head for a few hours a day. That was all Steve wanted for now.

As for the chess, well, he knew the rules. He was fairly good at it, too, he just didn't really like it. But the invitation was meant kindly, a gesture of friendship, and so after a day of menial chores around the base he found himself waiting by the exit for Richard and Mary, who let him into their car and drove him back to their home in Queens. It was his first time since his mad dash when he woke up that he left the base. Mary kept pointing things out along the side of the road. Steve responded politely and kept his eyes firmly focused on his feet. He didn't know why, but he didn't want to look.

They had dinner. It was good. He and Richard played chess for all of five minutes before Mary asked if they could play something she could join in with. So they played Clue and Hungry Hungry Hippos. Steve won both games; and he didn't _think_ they were letting him.

Things continued that way for six or seven weeks. Steve would go to his appointments, Richard would ask him how he was doing, Steve would say fine, and they would go on their way. And between appointments, they'd have lunch, or a chat in the corridor, or he'd go over for dinner, watch a little TV, play a game or two. Fury still wouldn't clear him for active duty, or to live anywhere but on the base. Mary said it was because Steve still wasn't talking about what had happened. Steve said he didn't want to. Richard said that was fine.

Then, one day, he was sitting in their lounge having just finished loading the dishwasher after dinner, arguing that it took just as long to load and unload as it would to just wash things by hand, when something on the news made him pause. It was just a small local-news bulletin, showing some derelict old buildings being demolished. But Steve realised he knew the street, or had known it, once. The buildings they were knocking down weren't even the ones he had known, they were ones that had replaced those he was thinking of. And as he watched the report, Steve found himself starting to cry.

There was no particular reason. He didn't even realise he was doing it until Mary pulled him into her arms, and he didn't know why he was crying, and he couldn't articulate it, why those buildings had set him off, but it was just one more thing that was gone, one more thing he had missed, and he hadn't even seen the street change the first time, and how much more had already been and gone while he was asleep? It wasn't just that Bucky was dead, and Peggy was dying, though those facts hurt like hell. Everyone he knew, everyone he had been at school with, everyone he had lived with, worked with, every guy who had ever beaten him up in a back alley, everyone he had ever walked past in the street was dead, or nearly. He was more alone than he had ever been before, and they were knocking down buildings he had never even seen. He'd cried like a child, detached from his own shame, with no understanding of his own distress. Afterwards, they'd ignored his embarrassment, told him it was the most natural thing he had done since he had woken up. Mary went to bed, and Steve slept on their couch. Richard stayed up for hours, listening, and Steve had talked and talked until his throat was hoarse about Peggy, everything he'd hoped they'd had and how little they'd actually enjoyed, about Bucky, how losing him had been like losing an arm, but worse; about dying to end a war and waking up to find it over, but not in the way you hoped, and not with the result of long-lasting peace. He talked about everything, really, and Richard listened to it all and stayed until Steve finally fell asleep.

Three days later, Fury finally cleared him. Steve was free to live the life he chose. If he had wanted to, he could have left Shield altogether. He'd been seriously tempted. But he hadn't know what to do instead, and Richard and Mary were his friends, and so he agreed to stay on. He would be re-trained, to make sure he was up-to-date with current procedures, and then he would be going out on active missions again. Not leading them though, not yet. Steve wasn't sure he ever wanted to do that again, not after Bucky. Richard told him to give it time.

The real problem had been arranging a place to live. The quarters on the Shield base were really only meant for short-term relief, a place to crash for a night or two, and were furnished accordingly. The tiny rooms couldn't really be considered a home, and Steve was already beyond sick of the same four walls and ceiling. He had his military pension and his Shield salary, and he'd intended to find a place to rent. Mary insisted on coming to view apartments with him, and eventually, after the fifth roach-infested tumbledown they'd been to in Brooklyn, had insisted Steve come and live with them. They all said it would only be temporary, until he found somewhere better, but Steve was sure not one of them had actually believed it.

But it had only been temporary, in the end. Less than two years, all in all.

They had told him Mary was pregnant soon after he had moved in. They had been so happy, and Steve had too; it was something to look forward to, something to hope for. Richard and Mary had been so happy, and so hopeful, that when Mary went into labour at 27 weeks they refused to believe that's what it was. Steve had seen it before, too many times. His mom had been the only nurse on their block, and whenever the women in the surrounding buildings felt the pains, they had come to her. Steve had been sent running, either for the midwife or for Bucky, if they needed the midwife faster than his asthmatic shamble of a body could make it. He'd fetch towels and hot water. And too often, he had been outside the door when it was over, and the only sound was the mother crying, not the baby.

So even though they didn't believe him, even though they said it was too soon, and that the pains were just the baby moving, Steve knew differently. He insisted Mary needed to get the midwife right away. Then he found out most women these days had to go to the midwife at the hospital, not the other way around – his mother would roll in her grave – and so Steve had physically picked her up, put her in the car, and told Richard in his best Captain America voice to drive them to the hospital, now. At first Mary thought it was funny, that he was making a fuss over nothing. Then it started to hurt, really hurt, and she began to be afraid. Even though Steve hadn't driven since 1941, he made Richard swap places with him. He drove them, fast as he could, to the hospital; and Richard climbed in the back, trying to keep Mary calm.

Midwives and doctors were waiting to meet them when they arrived; Richard had called ahead. They were whisked away into the depths of the hospital and Steve was left to sit, and wait, and pray.

He never thought, not for a second, that the baby would survive. It never even occurred to him that it would be possible this early on. In the car he had been hoping the hospital would somehow be able to stop it coming, but when he found out they couldn't he had thought he knew what came next. He had just been praying that Mary would survive, that she and Richard would, somehow, find some comfort in their grief. But, just over an hour later, Richard came to find him, collapsing into the chair next to Steve as if he had been gone for a life time.

The labour had been obscenely quick, he said. If Steve hadn't forced them to leave when he did, the little boy would have been born at home or in the back of the car, and there was no way he would have survived. It was touch and go now. The baby's lungs and heart were not as strong as they needed to be. He was in something called an incubator, and honestly, that was where Steve lost track of what Richard was telling him, talking about a lot of medical processes he'd never heard of and didn't understand. Mary was okay, but the short labour had not been easy. She needed rest.

They were going to call the baby Peter as planned, but his middle name was going to be Steven.

Steve had wanted to cry at that, but he didn't, because Richard broke down at that point and Steve needed to keep things together for his friend. And that was how the day that Peter was born ended.

It was months before Peter got out of the hospital, and as soon as he came home it was clear he was going to need a lot of care. Richard started working just a few hours a week from home. Mary gave up field work and switched to a desk job, just two days a week. Steve started slipping a little more money into his rent each month, took over the grocery shopping completely, and they didn't stop him. There were happy days, days where Peter was well, and they had fun. One day he pulled himself up on Steve's knees and started trying to walk. He was christened, and Steve made his promises as godfather, and felt so fiercely protective that he would have done anything to make Peter well; but there was nothing he could do. None of them could do anything. They just kept going, fitting their lives in as best they could around a constant string of check-ups, operations, hospital stays and appointments that first year.

They had been so excited for Peter's first birthday. They'd planned a party, invited the other families they knew from the hospital, booked a magician – and then, a week before, Peter picked up a cold, which quickly became a chest infection, which wound up as another hospital stay. They hung round at the hospital all day on his birthday, but he only woke up briefly, and was so grumpy he had no interest at all in his gifts.

Richard and Mary had died just a few months later. They had temporarily gone back to field work, some important mission 'from before' that Steve didn't have the clearance to know about, and they never came back. From that day on, Steve was all Peter had, and Peter was all he had.

They made it work. Peter grew loving, and intelligent, and bore with the limitations of his condition with great patience for a young child. If it weren't for the bed time battles over the oxygen tank (pre-paint job) that would keep him alive through the night and the strange obsession with Iron Man, he would have been perfect. Then again, to Steve, he was perfect anyway.

Peter's second birthday had been almost identical to the first. He had been in hospital, this time for the last of a string of planned operations to help open up his lungs and windpipe. That was the first day he had ever breathed completely unaided, but, again, he had mostly slept the day away, oblivious to Steve's fretting.

His third birthday had been the only one he had spent outside of hospital and Peter had really, really wanted to go to the zoo. The doctors had warned against it – there had been no telling what the hair and fur and smells of a zoo, not to mention being outside for so long, would do to Peter's respiratory system – and Steve had resolved not to go. But when he had woken up, seen the sun shining, seen Peter open his presents like any other child, his resolve had broken. They had gone to the zoo. They'd had a good time, too, even if it had ended in Peter getting too excited, being unable to catch his breath, needing an ambulance, and Steve getting inspected by child services. Still, it had been all Peter had talked about for weeks afterwards. He had told the social worker, at length, about the marsupials, mammals and reptiles even though she had not asked, and showed her his elephant hat. The social worker had told Steve to listen to the doctors in future and left them alone.

When Steve woke up on Peter's fourth birthday, he lay in bed and wondered if this had been a good idea. He wondered whether Stark would even show up. Then he wondered if he wanted him to or not. On the one hand, Stark was definitely a very bad influence. On the other, frankly, Peter's life expectancy wasn't really long enough for bad influences to be a problem.

Steve swore and got up. He hoped Stark would come.

Tony had _no idea_ what to wear. Well, no, there was the Iron Man armour, obviously, and beneath that his flight suit. He always wore his flight suit. He quickly reached a hand under his pyjama shirt to check it was still there, which it was. Good. With that established, he turned his mind back to his clothes.

The kid had wanted _the real Iron Man_. The armour could prove part of that, but the other half was going to be him, Tony Stark, looking like what a four year old imagined Tony Stark to look like. And that meant a suit. A tie. Tony couldn't fit one under the armour without creasing it, so he decided he would send it ahead to the hospital, change after he got the armour off. Looking sharp probably wouldn't hurt his chances with Captain Rogers, either, the grieving godfather with 6 feet of muscled body, a tight jaw, tight ass, tight, well, everything really. Tony was really looking forward to dinner.

Of course, there was a chance this was a trap, that someone at the hospital would snap a photo or swear to a statement telling the police he was Iron Man and that the Captain would try to arrest him at dinner. He was confident he could, as usual, quickly deal with any such a someone and situation, but there was no point in taking unnecessary risks.

'Jarvis? Do a background check.'

'Very good sir, on whom?'

'Captain Rogers. We have a date tomorrow, get me something good by then.'

Jarvis began to search without another word. He had not approved of Tony's choices in the last few years, and so Tony had turned off most of the Artificial Intelligence aspects of the system, effectively stripping it of any personality or opinions. Tony didn't know what he had been thinking in the first place, letting a computer program run so much of his household. He didn't miss it. He didn't need it.

He smoothed down the flight suit and began working his way into the armour. This was going to be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve got to the hospital early, but Peter was already awake and sitting up when he entered the room.

'Steve!'

'Hi, buddy,' Steve said, coming to hug him, careful to avoid the tube running to the tank. Peter wasn't dressed yet, so none of the nurses had come to detach him. Now Peter was awake and upright, it would be safe enough to take out. Steve did so, gently unhooking the line from Peter's nose. Peter squirmed impatiently at the unpleasant sensation, but didn't complain; too busy rocking excitedly back and forth on the bed. Steve suppressed a wry smile. Only Richard and Mary Parker could create a child both too ill to run around and too energetic to sit still.

'How did you sleep?' Steve asked.

' _Steve_ ,' Peter said, impatiently.

'Yeah?'

'It's my birthday!'

'Is it?'

'Yes!' Peter was practically bouncing on the bed now.

'Well, happy birthday, kiddo,' Steve planted a quick kiss on his hair. 'Sorry, I must have forgotten all about it.'

'No you didn't!' Peter protested. 'You brought that big bag!'

'So?'

'You never bring a bag to the hospital except when there's presents!'

'Nope,' Steve frowned. 'I've just been getting groceries on the way here. That bag is full of broccoli and sprouts.'

'Eww!' Peter giggled. 'No it's not!'

'It totally is, it's filled right to the top with lots of lovely vegetables and I'm going to make you eat them all.'

'It's not! It's _presents_!'

'What, you want me to prove it?' Steve asked, going and collecting the bag. 'You want me to open this and show you all the sprouts?'

'I want to open it!' He could practically see Peter vibrating with excitement.

'Well, too bad,' Steve said, putting the bag down on the floor. 'Let's get you dressed, eat some breakfast, and then we'll see what's in the bag, okay?'

'Okay,' Peter sighed the sigh of the _deeply_ put upon.

It was moments like this Steve liked the most, the moments where Peter was just like any other four year old, excited about his birthday and wolfing down the cereal one of the nurses brought him so he could get to his presents faster. True, they were in a hospital, and yes, Peter did have a coughing fit and need his inhaler after going the few feet from his bed to his locker and back again, but he was still four, and it was his birthday, and there were presents, and that was apparently all he needed for the world to be right.

Steve glanced at his phone. Would Stark contact the Make-a-Wish Foundation to let them know when he was coming? Or would he tell the hospital? Was he even going to show up?

'Steve,' Peter said, 'I'm finished!' He proffered up the cereal bowl. There was still more than half left.

'Two more bites,' Steve said.

Peter stirred the cereal. 'What if I do one big bite so it's like two little bites?'

'Sure.'

Peter loaded his spoon up as high as he could – he was not the sort of child who would have tried to cunningly pass a small mouthful off as a big one – and shoved it into his mouth. Steve forced his face to remain neutral so Peter wouldn't see him thinking _ahh he's going to choke_. Peter swallowed.

 _One big bite instead of two small ones_. It was very basic maths, but, in Steve's eyes at least, it showed the innate understanding of concept that Peter had been displaying since he was 18 months old, far before he'd had any formal teaching. Not that he'd had any now; nursery was not practically possible. But Peter had an inquisitive mind, begged to learn, and was well on his way to being able to read for himself. He could also count (Steve was not sure how high, he had once let Peter get all the way to 500 before he stopped him) and add and subtract numbers up to ten; basically anything he could use his fingers for. He definitely understood the idea of multiplication and division, too, but hadn't yet found a way to do this on his hands. Steve was almost relieved. Talent was one thing, something he could be proud of, but _genius_ would have been too intimidating, and too tragic, not when all that potential would never be realised.

'Please can I open the bag now?' Peter begged. Steve pulled himself together. All he could do was live in the present, and enjoy each moment as it came.

'You just had breakfast.'

'So?'

'So you don't need to eat any vegetables right now.'

' _Ste-eve!'_ Peter whined, still giggling. Steve broke and laughed too.

'Alright,' he said. 'Happy birthday, Peter.'

He placed the bag of presents onto Peter's bed and watched as the young boy excitedly unzipped it and took out each of the brightly-wrapped parcels, laying them out on his bed before starting to open them. He looked at each one carefully and gratefully, even whilst eyeing up the next. They were all exciting, they were all appreciated. Steve was glad Peter didn't notice that only one of the toys was brand new, still in the packaging. The rest he had found in charity shops. He hated that he had spent less than $25 on Peter's birthday, but it had been all he could spare. Caring for Peter meant he could only work ad-hoc for Shield, and then strictly only as a consultant. He got some money from his old WW2 service pension, but by the time he'd paid rent and tax and food bills and Peter's sky-high medical insurance, it just didn't stretch very far.

Still, it wasn't so bad. He'd found he could save a lot when Peter was in hospital by simply not using any electricity. A candle was enough to get him to bed, and it was kind of nice. It reminded him of his childhood, when the supply had been unreliable at best and power cuts sometimes went on for days. The back streets of Brooklyn had not exactly been a priority during the shortages of the Depression. In any case, the best ghost stories were told by candlelight.

He hadn't yet tried out any of the old tales on Peter, though. He would probably cry.

They spent a happy morning playing together with the toys and then, when that got too much, curled up on the bed watching _Cars 2._ Steve was sure he could almost recite it word-for-word at this point, but Peter never seemed to tire of watching it. As far as he was concerned, _Cars_ and _Cars 3_ could get lost; Peter would rather watch _Cars 2_ for the millionth time. Steve did not get it, at all. He'd paid some level of attention to the film the first few times, if only so he could talk to Peter about it, but these days he usually watched Peter watching instead; especially if they'd put it on because he was feeling tired or sick or unhappy, trying to see if he was comforted. Today, though, it was all he could do not to sit there staring at his watch instead. When was Stark going to come? _Was_ he going to come?

They had cancelled Peter's party on the ward for this. In the end, Stark had been adamant – he was coming to see Peter, and just Peter. The more kids that were there, the more chance there was of proof of his identity coming out. So Peter had been moved to a tiny private room tucked into a corner of the hospital, looking out into the courtyard where the hospital kept the bins and took deliveries, and hardly anyone passed by in the corridor outside. True to form, Peter had not complained once. Then again, the move seemed to have tired him out; now the excitement of the gifts had faded, he was barely awake, nuzzled into Steve's side. He was wheezing, even though they were sitting still. Steve listened to his breathing, but decided no, there was no need for medical intervention just yet. He shifted slightly, making Peter sit more upright, hoping it would be enough to ease the strain on his chest. He started running his fingers gently through Peter's hair. Peter curled into him a little more.

'Steve,' Peter said, hesitantly. 'Love you, Steve.'

'Love you too, Pete.'

'Thank you for looking after me.'

'We're a team, buddy. We look after each other.'

'Okay,' he nodded. 'Bye, Steve.'

Steve looked down at him in surprise. 'Bye? Are you tired? Do you want me to go?'

'No,' Peter shook his head, looking back towards the movie. 'But they put me in this room so I wouldn't die in front of the other kids.'

It was like it was 1938, and he was having the snot kicked out of him in a Brooklyn back alley because he'd told a guy to lay off a lady, and he had known that the beating wasn't going to stop, that no-one else was coming to help, because Bucky was out of town. It was like he was in the plane, about to hit the water, and suddenly realised that he really didn't want to die. It was like the day he had cried at the news bulletin about the buildings, the day he had watched Bucky fall, the day he had been told Richard and Sarah would not be coming home, like someone had punched him so hard it had knocked everything out of him and, try as he might, there would be no getting back up.

Peter was still watching the film. Steve knew his response to this was important, that what he said here really mattered, but he couldn't put himself together enough to form a proper sentence.

'What? No, Pete, no, that's not, it's, it isn't, what-'

And then, there was the sound of explosions out in the yard.

For someone who had insisted that he wanted to lie low, Tony Stark- Iron Man- was certainly making an entrance; flying down at speed surrounded by an impressive array of fireworks.

But as Steve looked out into the yard, he realised that the only other windows that faced it were offices and store rooms, their blinds tightly closed. Stark was low enough in the sky that this show was very much for Peter's eyes only.

And Peter's eyes, when Steve turned back to him, were about the size of dinner plates. He clutched reflexly to Steve's sleeve.

' _Iron Man_ ,' he breathed, so quietly Steve could hardly hear him, apparently too excited to speak.

'Right,' Steve said, hugging him. 'And look, seems like he's coming this way.'

Peter looked genuinely startled and sat bolt upright, watching as Iron Man landed outside and strode towards the fire escape that would let him into Peter's room. Peter cast around wildly, as though lost, then turned to Steve.

'You got him to come!'

'I might have had a little chat with him.'

'You're the best, you're the best, you're the best!' Peter practically leapt back into his arms, headbutting him affectionately in what seemed to be an attempt to hug as much of Steve as he could in the shortest possible time. Steve held him close. It was worth it. Whatever happened on this dinner, however nuts or bad Stark was, it was worth it for this.

The fire escape opened.

'Hey,' Stark said, stepping into the room. 'You must be Peter.'

Untangling himself from Steve, Peter nodded.

Stark came and sat on the bed, still on the full armour. Peter's eyes goggled at it in amazement, taking it all in.

'Your Dad there told me it's your birthday today.'

Peter nodded again. Steve shifted awkwardly. This part never got any easier.

'Uh, I'm not actually- I'm not his Dad.'

'Yeah, you are.' Stark dismissed. He leaned in towards Peter and spoke, his stage-whisper clearly audible through the helmet's speakers. 'Is he always this dumb?'

Peter giggled, then stretched out a tentative hand towards the helmet, enchanted by it. Then he remembered his manners and said, politely. 'Can I, is it alright if I touch it? Please?'

'Sure thing, kid. Can't say no to the birthday boy.'

Delighted, Peter reached forward and eagerly ran his hands over the helmet, gently tracing the curves and welds in it. Steve remembered vaguely hearing some rumour about Stark being able to shoot lasers from the eyes of that thing, and thought about intervening, but there was nothing threatening about Stark now. It was almost like watching a completely different person to the drunken mercenary he had met in the bar.

Suddenly, the face plate snapped open and Peter jumped back into his pillows. Steve was practically between them before he knew what he was doing. Stark smirked at him.

'I just had a better idea,' he said, getting to his feet.

'It _is_ you!' Peter was kneeling up on the mattress now, keen for a better look. 'I knew it! I knew Iron Man was Tony Stark!' In his excitement, he was bobbing up and down on the bed springs.

'Yep. You can keep a secret, right?'

'Uh-huh.'

'Good.' Tony stood up. 'Well then, if it's alright with you, I'm going to change. Hold this, squirt.'

He took off the helmet and plopped it onto Peter's head, the visor closed. It was far too big and fell right down to rest on Peter's shoulders, but judging from the boy's noises of amazement and wonder there was something spectacular inside it.

'Simulation of flying in the suit,' Stark said. 'I was going to take him out for a spin for real but I didn't think his lungs would hold up.'

'Maybe not,' Steve said, tearing his eyes away from where Peter was now bending and swaying on the bed. 'Stark. Thanks for this.'

'Yeah, just remember the deal, gorgeous.' The armour was peeling away from him now, neatly coming away like the shell off a nut, and then reconfiguring, folding down, turning itself into what looked like a briefcase. Stark emerged, wearing nothing but a skin tight undersuit, something like a leotard. The thing in his chest – Steve could not remember what it was called – glowed brightly through a hole in the suit, though it had been cut roughly, leaving tentacle-like pieces of rubbery material clawing over it. Stark sauntered casually over to the locker and pulled out an expensive-looking suit, pulling it on over the under-armour. Steve could not for the life of him work out when Stark could have had it put there, but decided not to ask.

Just then, Peter fell back flat onto his back on the bed. Steve looked at him, saw how quickly his chest was rising and falling, and ripped the helmet off him. Peter was beaming beneath it, wheezing, but eyes bright with excitement.

'Mr... Stark...' He started, but whatever else he was trying to say was lost in the panting. Steve sat him upright again, reaching with his other hand to open the valves on the oxygen tank. There was the nasal tubes Peter had to insert to keep him breathing through the night, or there was a mask for crisis. Steve took the mask, and although Peter swatted irritatedly at him, held it over his face.

'Peter, you know you can't-' Steve swallowed the admonishment, suddenly realising he was about to tell a four year old he wasn't allowed to _get excited_. On his _birthday_. He cleared his throat. 'Just, let's fix this and then you can go back to talking to Mr Stark, okay?'

They counted together, in and out, trying to get his breathing under control. When Steve was sure the episode had passed, he took the mask off. Peter was immediately talking as if nothing had happened.

'Mr Stark, that was amazing! It was like _whoosh!_ And I was like _woah_ , and then there that dive, and the turns, and I saw the birds and went under the bridge and- and the pylon! And the bit where-'

'Glad you enjoyed it, kid.' Stark looked at him warily. He hadn't gone back to sit on the bed. Steve hadn't had chance to look at his face during the attack, but he knew it must have unnerved the other man. It often took people that way. No-one, however bad they were, liked to be faced with a child suffering. 'Oh, here.' Stark took his phone out of the front pocket of the jacket – _how long had that been there? -_ and tapped at the screen a few times. Then he lifted it to show Peter.

It was a picture of Peter's drawing, the one Steve had shown him at the bar. It was taped to a gleaming chrome fridge.

'You put it on the fridge?' Peter couldn't believe it. Neither, for that matter, could Steve. More than likely, it had been put on just for as long as it took to take the photograph. Still, he appreciated the effort.

'Yep, and that's the beer fridge, aka, the best fridge.' Stark made a show of looking at his watch. 'Well, we're about done here. Just one more thing...' he threw himself back on the bed next to Peter again, holding the phone at a high angle. 'Say cheese, Peter.'

Peter did his best, biggest smile; which was hardly any different to the one he had been wearing ever since Iron Man had turned up outside. Stark inspected the picture.

'Nice,' he said, and stood up. 'Oh, this is your birthday present, kid.' He tossed the phone back to Peter. 'Enjoy it. It has _Angry Birds_. Happy birthday.' Without any further ado, he snatched up the briefcase and swept out of the room, leaving Peter examining the phone in his hands and looking as overwhelmed as Steve felt.

'I'll be back in a second,' he told Peter, and followed Stark out into the corridor, having to jog to catch up with him.

'Stark!'

'Captain, if you're about to give me some _a-four-year-old-doesn't-need-a-cell-phone_ bullshit then-'

'No,' Steve said. 'Just... thank you. Really, thank you.'

Stark looked, for a moment, genuinely taken aback. Then he smirked, moving a few paces closer to Steve. Steve fought the urge to back away. The gentleness that had been shown to Peter was gone; Stark was all predator now.

'Yes, well, I just compromised my identity, so you should be grateful.'

'I assure you, it won't go any further.'

'See that it doesn't. Well, sweetheart, I have to go. I'll pick you up for dinner tomorrow at 8. Wear something slutty.' He winked and left, and Steve couldn't even _care_ , because he knew Peter was happier than he had been possibly in the entirety of his short little life. He would have had dinner with Stark every night for the rest of time if it would keep that happiness going forever. Once was nothing. It was just dinner.

The second Tony slammed into his house, he ripped his shirt and trousers back off, stripping down to the flight suit, waving his free hand to open a computer interface.

That had been awful. The little kid hadn't been able to _breathe_. Tony's own breath started to catch at the thought. And Steve had reacted like it was perfectly ordinary, the only change in his face was a slight, thoughtful crease between his eyebrows. Was that how people actually lived their lives?

Well, not him, not any more, never again. Tony glanced around the place just to double check. The only movement was one of his robots, precisely programmed for only the tasks he wanted it to do, quietly collecting his discarded clothes. Good. It was as it should be. Ever since Tony had escaped, he had cultivated a life where he was completely in control of every aspect. That had been part of the reason the company had had to go. There had been too many people, too many variables, too many strings to keep hold of even for him. It wasn't like he had needed the money anyway. Now his brain, his inventions, were only for him. When he wanted something, he got it. When he didn't like something, he got rid of it. He had simplified his life, stripped it to the bare elements, made it streamlined and efficient, and nothing happened to _him_ unless he wanted it to, and when he wanted it to, he made it happen himself. Everything in his life was how he wanted it.

The people were no different. He had eliminated them from his professional and home life; now he only had people around when he wanted company. That was easy enough too. Everyone had strings that could be pulled to make them act as he wanted them to. Most of them made it pretty easy, if they knew what he wanted of them. Even Captain Rogers, who was not the usual hot-body-empty-head type Tony usually targeted, had made it pretty obvious where to pull. He just wanted to make his little boy happy. Tony wanted the Captain. It wasn't hard to make it happen.

But _damn_ , he had thought Peter was going to die right there.

Impatient, he brushed the thought aside. He didn't care about the kid. There was nothing he could do about it, so it wasn't going to become part of his life. The kid was just a means to an end. Of course, Tony had realised the Captain wasn't going to play ball and sleep with him on the first date, but he didn't mind toying with him for a while. It might even make a nice change of pace. He had started having dreams again in the last few days; not necessarily bad dreams, but an unsettling change from the years of empty sleep he had enjoyed. A little challenge in his waking life might be just what he needed. He'd have the Captain in the end.

'Test the tracker,' He commanded.

'Yes, sir.' Jarvis replied. 'I also have the results of the background check. Would you like to hear the contents of Captain Rogers' Shield personnel file?'

'Sure,' Tony said, glancing at the screen he had pulled up before flopping down on the couch to listen. Behind him, a small blinking dot flashed over the hospital on the on-screen map, telling Tony exactly where he could find Peter's new phone.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve couldn't stop thinking about the first time he had looked after Peter on his own. He had only been a few months old, then, and his parents had been going out for their anniversary dinner. It was the first time they had left him and both of them came back at least half a dozen times for one last goodbye before they finally left. They didn't seem worried about leaving him with Steve, though. Steve had been a fixture in Peter's life from day one, had helped with the feeding and changing and bathing when they needed him to, and probably knew Peter as well as they did. They thought that while they would miss Peter, Peter would be fine.

But as soon as they shut the front door, Peter started crying and did not stop until he eventually cried himself into exhaustion and fell asleep. Realistically, sensibly, Steve thought that babies just did that sometimes, and that Peter probably would have been exactly the same if Richard and Mary had been there. But deep down, where he could never voice it aloud, he had known the simple fact was that nobody, however well intentioned, could substitute for loving parents.

That was part of the reason he was so annoyed at Stark for pressuring Peter into agreeing that Steve was his 'dad'. Peter idolised the man and would have agreed to just about anything if Iron Man was the one saying it.

Despite that, though, the visit had been a success. Peter had loved it; and from the time Stark left to the time he finally fell asleep, he had been busy playing with the phone, and discussing the visit endlessly with Steve, completely overexcited. It had been late when he had finally dropped off, and Steve had been much later getting home than he had anticipated, but he hadn't been able to sleep anyway. He just kept hearing Peter saying goodbye to him all over again, agonising over his own, totally inadequate response. He lay awake most of the night, trying to formulate a better answer, what he would say in the conversation he knew they needed to have, and failing utterly.

He got to the hospital early the next morning, so early that Peter wasn't even awake yet. For a moment, Steve hung in the doorway to his room, watching him. Peter slept with his arms flung out, like he was ready to embrace the whole world. His hair was tousled on the pillow, his breathing rough and wheezing despite the tube pumping extra oxygen into his body. The precious phone was still on the pillow next to him, alongside Spinny, a cuddly spider toy that Richard had bought Mary on their first date, a trip to the zoo. Feelings were spinning in Steve's chest that he wasn't able to identify.

'Steve?'

'Dr Moore,' Steve turned at the familiar voice. Dr Moore had been the lead on Peter's case ever since he was born, and had been a firm favourite of Peter's ever since she had shown him the footage from a camera they had put down his throat. She was a calm, capable woman, and was easy to trust. Steve never doubted her. But it was never good when she asked you if you had a minute, if you could come into the office, which is what she did then.

'Can I offer you anything?' She asked, as Steve sat down in front of her desk. 'Tea? Coffee? This is early even for you.'

'I'm fine,' Steve shrugged. 'I've been awake a while already.'

'It was a big day yesterday.'

'Yeah. I'm sure Peter will tell you all about it when he wakes up.'

'I bet he will,' Dr Moore smiled, then settled her face into a more neutral position. 'Steve, when you first adopted Peter, you told me that you always wanted me to be straight with you about Peter's health and his condition.'

Steve went to agree, realised his throat had completely dried up, and nodded.

Dr Moore sighed. 'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you've probably seen for yourself that Peter's condition is deteriorating. Ever since that last bout of the flu, I haven't been happy with his chest or breathing. The antibiotics seem to have taken care of the infection, but... I think we need to accept that this is as healthy as Peter will ever be now.'

Steve nodded again. It was not the first time they'd had a conversation like this, and he always had the same question.

'How long?'

'Not long.' Dr Moore said. 'I'm sorry. You need to think about what you want to do next. He can stay here at the hospital, we'll give him the best care, but... I need you to understand. At this point, we would just be prolonging the inevitable.'

'You've been doing that since the day he was born. How long?'

'Weeks. Maybe two months, if you keep him here. Less, probably, at home. But... you should consider his quality of life, too. He may be happier at home, with you.'

Steve swallowed several times. 'Is... will he be in pain?'

'No. No, I don't think so. You'll probably find he'll just have less and less energy, that his breathing will be more strained, until his heart and lungs give out and he... slips away. It shouldn't hurt him. If he complains of any pain, you would need to call for an ambulance right away.'

Steve didn't answer. He couldn't believe it would be painless. He remembered his own days of _not-breathing_ , before the serum, when every winter the cold would wreak havoc with his asthma, and some breaths were like swallowing knives. Was that what Peter felt like all the time? Damn.

'I need to think about it,' he said, finally. 'Isn't... is there really nothing?'

'I'm sorry.'

No. No, Steve couldn't accept that.

'I... I was thinking. What about those experiments, in the 40s? The super soldier experiments. If we could get something like the serum then-'

'Steve,' Dr Moore said gently. 'You aren't the first grieving parent- sorry, carer- to ask me that. And I'm going to tell you what I tell all of them. First of all, I am very sceptical of the truth about those stories. If they're true, it would have been a medical and scientific marvel. Don't forget, for a long time Captain America was purely a propaganda icon, a marketing device. I wouldn't be surprised if they did that demonstration and the skinny guy got in the pod, slipped through a trap door, and the real soldier took his place. It may well have been sleight of hand, not science.' Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Dr Moore continued as if she hadn't noticed. 'But alright, let's say for the sake of argument that this really did occur, and did work like they say, and cured every illness going, made this guy into the peak of human health and fitness. All documents related to the formula are highly classified. I know because I've checked. And as far as I can tell, they're incomplete. Dr Erskine, the man who allegedly made the formula, supposedly always feared about it falling into enemy hands, and failed to commit vital details to paper. And even if you somehow pieced that together, you would still need these 'vita rays' that were the other half of the equation.'

'Howard Stark's rays, I know. I... I might be able to get those. I mean, Stark might know. We could ask him. And the serum, what if I could get you...' he hesitated, just for a second. He had never revealed his true past to anyone except Richard and Mary. It just seemed simpler that way. The hesitation was the only sign Dr Moore needed to continue.

' _Steve_. If you've been googling this, you must have read the newspaper reports from the time. If it was all genuine, then you'd know that Rogers nearly flatlined multiple times during the procedure. The reports say he was in agony, and no wonder, if his body was totally regenerating like they make out. Peter is four years old. Even if we were somehow completely certain we had the formula right, and the procedure right, and that the old stories are completely true, Peter could never survive trauma like that, pain like that. His heart would give out in seconds.'

There was a long silence. Steve only remembered some of the pain he had experienced that day, pain so bad he had blocked most it out. He had thought he was going to die. He had only held on because, well, the chance – however slim – of something better had been preferable to going back, even as his body had changed and grown into something he didn't recognise. The doctor was right; Peter would never survive it, and Steve couldn't put him through it.

'Right,' he said.

'I'm sorry, Steve, really.' Dr Moore paused, then said, 'Oh, Steve Rogers, I never noticed that. Coincidence, or are you named after him?'

Steve didn't want to lie, so he didn't answer. 'Can I have some time to think? About whether to... take him home?'

'Of course. Do you have a therapist? It may be something worth discussing with them.'

'I will,' Steve lied. His therapist was dead. 'Thank you, Doctor.'

He left the office and walked off down the hall. He wasn't going to go back to Peter just yet. Not until he'd found something to punch into the dirt.

For the first time, he was almost glad Stark was taking him out to dinner that night. It was time to make sure that alcohol really didn't work. Maybe if he drank enough quickly enough, he would be able to forget for one more night.

Tony pulled up outside Steve's building at around 8.30, fearing for his life – or certainly for his car. This neighbourhood was not one he usually frequented. It was practically a _slum_. It was no wonder the kid was sick if he had grown up in a place like this. Tony felt ill just stopping there. He blared the horn.

Steve stepped out of the foyer, having clearly been waiting by the door. He was wearing a pale blue buttoned shirt, khaki trousers, and a frown. Tony wound down the window.

'Hey, sweetheart.'

'You're late.'

'Yeah, but you waited.' Tony smirked. 'Come on, beautiful, get in. I'll make it up to you.'

Steve rolled his eyes, but walked round the car, climbing into the passenger seat. He closed the door with a slam behind him. Clearly whatever breakthrough they'd had the day before was over now, because the Captain was showing no signs of gratitude and every sign of outright hostility. Time was, when Tony had still had chauffeurs, that he would have pulled him into the back seat and kissed and cuddled and applied alcohol so that by the time they reached the restaurant they would be best friends. But he didn't let anyone else drive for him anymore, so that would have to wait.

'I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that,' Steve said, after a minute.

'What, 'beautiful'? Because honestly, look at you. I don't know how I can call you anything else. Or did you mean 'sweetheart'? Or 'blue-eyes'? Because, again-'

'Any of it.'

'Alright, alright, so what do I call you? Steve? Captain? Captain Rogers? Captain America?'

He had been planning to save that little reveal for later, but it was worth it just to see how quickly Steve turned to face him, looking shocked. Tony waited for him to open his mouth to speak, then jumped in first.

'I know, I know, you're about to try and pass the name off as a big coincidence and tell me how much crap you got for it in the army, blah blah blah, and then I'm going to say bullshit, because it is, and we'll argue back and forth a bit but eventually you'll admit it because a, I'm right, and b, sorry, gorgeous, but I am way smarter than you and there is no way you could outwit me.'

Steve seemed to be weighing his options. Finally he shrugged and said, 'Alright, fine. How did you find out?'

'You realise that your photo is in literally every history book, right?' Tony asked, because it sounded considerably less stalker-y than 'I ran a full background check and hacked Shield', and he didn't think the Captain would be into that.

'Not every history book,' Steve said. 'I'm not in the medieval ones. Or any of the pre-1940s ones.'

Tony laughed. 'Never knew you were such a pedant. So, how come it's such a big secret? If I as Captain America everyone would know about it. Worried some faceless government corporation is going to come and start running experiments on you? Because if so, I have some things to tell you about Shield, sweetpea.'

Steve looked at him, his frown deepening. 'What?'

'Well, they aren't exactly transparent. I doubt they even tell you-'

'Not that,' Steve interrupted. 'Why is that your first question?'

'It's the most interesting.'

'Really? Not 'How are you still alive, you were born in 1918' or 'Where have you been for 70 years?''

Right. The Captain was not Tony's usual variety of airhead; he wasn't just going to take whatever story Tony gave him. Tony shrugged. 'I don't compromise my identity for just anyone. I did a bit of digging.'

'Right. Thanks.'

'For digging?'

'For seeing Peter. He was really pleased.' Steve's gaze was fixed on his lap, where his hands were balled into fists. Tony hesitated.

'...is the kid okay?'

'No.'

'Oh. Well, tonight it's just you and me. You can forget it for a while.'

Steve said nothing. His hands clenched tighter. Tony suddenly wondered what he was doing. Yes, he had decided a long time ago that he was his own top priority, but this was starting to feel like it bordered on evil.

'Cap? Do we need to take a rain check on dinner?'

'No. No, just, I thought the same thing. About forgetting.'

'Oh. Well, great. We can do that. I find alcohol helps, we can-'

'No. I feel awful for even thinking it. If he doesn't have long, how can I waste a second _not_ thinking about him?.'

Oh, hell, was the Captain going to start crying in his car? Tony had a strict no-tears policy within a radius of several feet around him. He had no interest whatsoever in dealing with anyone else's drama. Anyone who cried was immediately put out on the kerb. Thankfully, Steve's eyes remained dry.

'You're allowed a night off. Come on, we'll drink-'

'Alcohol doesn't work on me. Not since the serum.'

' _Seriously_? Urrgh. You poor thing.'

Steve suddenly snorted in amusement. 'That's what gets your sympathy? Not my dying four year old godson, no, the fact I can't get drunk?'

'You have your priorities, I have mine.'

Steve laughed and finally seemed to relax just a tiny bit. The colour began to return to his knuckles.

'You know you're ridiculous, right? And possibly insane,' he said.

'Cap, people have been saying that since I was two years old.' Tony put his foot down on the accelerator. He might as well embrace the image.

Steve had been to the restaurant before. Well, not inside it; but he had hovered awkwardly outside before being moved along by a bouncer when he had still been trying to catch Stark to ask him about coming to the hospital. According to the internet, this was one of Stark's favourite places to go, and he certainly seemed comfortable enough, insisting on taking Steve's arm and escorting him inside, passing his keys to the doorman. He didn't even pause at the maître de, passing straight through to a table alone in an alcove by the window. Steve was beginning to feel distinctly under dressed; everyone else here, both staff and patrons, seemed to be in full black tie. Or white tie? He had never worked out the difference. In any case, even the table, draped in a white, embroidered tablecloth and decorated with two small candles burning on a pleasingly-shaped stone centrepiece, was better dressed than he was. He wished he had at least put on a tie.

Stark didn't seem to care, pulling out Steve's seat for him and patting it invitingly before moving round the table to sit down himself. There was a bottle of red wine already on the table, and Stark waved away the waiter who was hurrying over and started to pour it himself.

Steve wondered whether Stark had called in advance to arrange all this, or whether they just kept the table and wine available for him at all times, like the Phantom of the Opera and his box at the theatre. Steve decided to keep that particular comparison to himself, certain that Stark would be a little too pleased about it.

'This is Chateau Mouton Rothschild,' Tony told him, finishing topping up the glasses. '1918 vintage. I ordered it just for you. Try some.'

Steve took the glass from him, took a tentative sniff, and sipped.

'Well?'

'It's wine,' Steve shrugged, setting it down. He'd had this before, during his time as a military poster boy, when he'd had to put in an appearance at fancy dinners to try and get rich people to buy war bonds. He was convinced that, before the serum, he would not have been able to tell the difference between wines at all. Now, with his senses enhanced, he could usually taste the slight differences in the flavours and ingredients; and it was enough to tell him that they really were only slight. In the end, wine was wine.

Stark groaned. 'I spent $2400 on wine for someone with no palate.'

'Why would you ever spend that much money on wine?'

'You know my bank account is basically bottomless, right? I have to spend it on something.'

Steve sipped again. He was not a big fan of wine, put off by the vinegary taste, but this didn't have the after burn of some of the cheap stuff. 'But you shut down your company, what, three years ago? Even your money's got to run out eventually.'

Stark laughed. 'You realise I was filing patents for twenty years in my own name before I got hold of the company? I'm living off licenses, gorgeous, and until someone smarter than me comes along and replaces my stuff with something better...' he trailed off, shrugging. Clearly he did not think that was particularly likely.

Neither of them mentioned Iron Man. Steve wondered how much Stark made taking on hit jobs for other people. A silent waiter appeared at his elbow then, putting plates down in front of them. There had been no menu involved. Either Stark always ate the same thing or, again, he had ordered in advance.

Steve had no idea what the thing on his plate was. It had a green, circular base and was topped with an array of aesthetically pleasing plants. Some were vegetables, some were probably herbs, and there was something in the middle he had no idea of at all. It almost didn't look like food at all, it looked more like _art_. Stark saw his face and laughed.

'It's just pea royale, sweetheart. Just peas and vegetables and a truffle. You can eat it.'

Steve did, and it was every bit as delicious as it looked. Stark's smirk grew, if possible, even wider; but Steve finished the starter anyway. It was too good to pass up for the sake of pride, and anyway, he had agreed to come out to dinner. That generally involved eating.

'So,' he said once he was finished, having been completely distracted by the food. 'Was that why you shut it all down? You were making enough off the patents?'

'That isn't really any of your business, blue-eyes,' Stark replied, and he reached forward to pat Steve's knee under the table. Steve moved his leg. Stark moved his hand. The pat was definitely becoming more of a rub, but just as Steve went to say something, there was a sudden flash of light.

On the next table, a young man looked absolutely mortified, throwing his phone down. Clearly he had been trying to take a picture of them on the sly and forgotten about the flash. Tony, however, seemed unperturbed. He simply carried on drinking his wine, crooking the finger of one hand at the waiter.

A moment later, the young man was quietly and efficiently hustled outside by two of the wait staff who looked more like hired goons. His phone was left abandoned on the table. Nobody touched it. Stark resumed his leg stroking until Steve 'accidentally' kicked him in the shin. Stark laughed.

'Fine, I guess I promised to be good.' He paused emphatically. 'As long as you want me to be, anyway.'

The incident with the photograph had killed any lingering inclination for Steve to have a good time. He just wanted to eat and get out of here, work out what he was going to do with and for Peter. The main course arrived and he set to it at once.

'Hey, take your time over that,' Stark scowled. 'You looked so cute before, all excited by _peas_. Now you're shovelling it down so fast I doubt it's even going to hit the sides.'

Steve swallowed. 'What's going to happen to that guy?'

'Which guy?'

' _Stark._ '

'He's fine. He just won't be getting his phone back any time soon.' Stark said, lazily. Then, abruptly, he asked 'So how did you even end up with Peter?'

Thrown by this abrupt change in topic, it took Steve a second to register what he was being asked. Then he wondered how much he ought to say. Whatever Stark said about 'being good', he had made his interest and intentions pretty obvious from the beginning, and Steve didn't want to give him anything to latch onto, to claim they had a 'connection'. Nor had he failed to realise that Stark's 'digging' into his background undoubtedly meant that he had illegally accessed Shield's top secret files. This man was dangerous.

But he hadn't been like that with Peter, not really. His visit had been brief, but had meant so much to Peter. Steve didn't think Stark was a risk to the child; and Richard and Mary were already dead. He supposed he could tell Stark a little.

'I was friends with his parents. They put me up after I woke up; I was lodging with them when Peter was born. So after they died...'

'You got left with a dying kid. Hell, that's tough.'

'Yes.'

'Bet if you'd known how it would turn out you would never have moved in with them.'

Steve frowned. 'That's a horrible thing to say, Stark.'

Stark shrugged. 'It's honest.'

Steve considered this. It was true that he had known a lot of loss in his life, and he didn't really want to imagine losing anyone else, he wasn't sure he could take it. Knowing Peter was sick was painful enough, and he knew there was worse to come. He had no idea how he would handle it, how he would survive it. He knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that his life - or at least a large part of it – would end the moment Peter's did. But change it? Live his life without Peter? That was unimaginable. It was no life at all.

'No,' he said. 'I wouldn't change it. Peter is... he's just great. He's so determined, he just keeps going, and no matter how bad it gets, or how poor his circumstances are, or how sick he's feeling, he just wants to find a way to play and have fun.'

Stark cocked an eyebrow. 'I think that's called _being four_ , you know.'

'It's more than that,' Steve insisted. 'It's his whole outlook.'

And without meaning to, he began to talk and talk, telling Stark all about Peter; what he enjoyed, what scared him, what they did together. How he had refused to eat carrots for a year, and it eventually turned out it was because Steve had told him carrots would help him see better in the dark, and Peter had thought he'd said carrots could see in the dark, and had been frightened. Steve told Stark about how smart, how curious Peter was, and how he could already add and subtract, and would probably get the hang of multiplication if he only had more fingers. And Stark listened to all of it, right up until they cleared away the main course (which Steve had been surprised to learn was pigeon. He had eaten pigeon plenty of times growing up, but it had never tasted as heavenly as _that)_ and brought out the dessert, some sort of fruit soufflé topped with ice cream in a flavour he could not identify.

'Alright, I get it,' Stark said, tapping something into his phone and then setting it back down on the table. 'You know, I don't normally let my dates talk about their kids this much. Or at all. Or have kids in the first place.'

'You don't like kids? You seemed to get on with Pete.'

'I don't like dating people with kids,' Stark clarified. 'Too complicated. Too many little... variables. You're the exception.'

'We aren't dating. This is just one dinner, like we agreed.'

Stark said nothing, merely smirked again.

'Stark. It's just dinner.'

'Call me Tony.'

'Fine, _Tony_ , after this-'

Tony lunged across the table and pressed a finger to his lips. 'Don't get ahead of yourself, Captain. Let's talk about after, after.'

Annoyed, Steve turned his face away. Stark ran his thumb down his cheek, and let go. Steve could feel the blood racing where he had touched. He desperately wanted to say something, something specific, but couldn't identify what it was.

Suddenly, in the corner of the room, a harp began to play. Steve had seen it standing there when they had entered, and had half-hoped he would get to hear it in action. He turned to watch the harpist, but Tony had leapt to his feet the second the music started. The expression on his face was ugly, his eyes narrowed in anger. Steve glanced around the room; the waiting staff were either looking horrified or confused, and the maître de was hurrying over towards the musician. Whatever he was trying to do, however, it was too late.

'We're leaving,' Stark said, grabbing his elbow. 'Get up.'

Steve shrugged him off, but stood, looking regretfully at his dessert. He had lost his appetite since Stark had started implying there would be more _dates_ , but if the soufflé was as good as the rest of the meal had been...

'Come on,' Stark urged, putting his hand on the small of his back and propelling him out. 'We're going. Now.'

'Why?'

'I can't stand music,' Stark said, his teeth gritted, his eyes narrowing. 'I told them no music. I told them.'

They made their way out. If they were supposed to pay, no-one asked them too. Nobody said anything to them at all as Steve was ushered back to the car. Stark drove him back to his building in silence, blinking very rapidly the whole time. He was a bomb, Steve thought, about to go off. The second Stark pulled up, before he had even stopped the engine, Steve was trying the door.

'Well, thank you,' he said. 'For Peter and for tonight.'

The door handle did nothing. It was locked.

'You don't need to rush off, do you?' Stark asked, leaning over to prop his elbow against Steve's seat. 'And after we were having such a good time.' He reached out with his other hand and squeezed Steve's thigh. 'I wouldn't want to leave the evening unfinished.'

'Open the door, Stark.'

'Sorry, sweetheart, no-one gets out of this car without _at least_ a kiss. I don't make the rules.'

'Right,' Steve said, and suddenly swung round in his seat, leaning back so far that his head was practically in Stark's lap, who looked down on him in delight, immediately twining his fingers into his hair.

'You want to lay in my lap, handsome? That's a good start.'

'No, it's just that the window looks like it's reinforced. Bullet proof glass?'

'Yeah, though technically it's bullet resistant. So?'

'Nothing. Just that my legs are stronger than my arms.'

With that, Steve kicked hard with both his feet at the window, which shattered immediately, and in one smooth movement Steve had rolled out of it and disappeared back inside the building. Tony watched him go.

He was so turned on right now.

He could follow Steve inside, get what he wanted from him.

But no, this was the long game. And Tony had other things to do.

Slowly, Tony removed his jacket, shirt and tie. There was no rush, and they would only get creased if he didn't lay them just so across the back seat. Once he had stripped down to nothing but his flight suit, he reached beneath his seat for the briefcase that disguised the Iron Man armour.

The flight suit felt somehow tighter tonight, as if something inside him was reluctant to go outside and face the light and the noise again, but Tony ignored the feeling. He stepped out of the car, briefcase in hand, and went on his way.

He'd told them no music. No music, and no photographs. He'd been very clear.

Tony did not like it when he wasn't listened to.


	6. Chapter 6

In the end, there had been no choice at all, really. If this really was it for Peter, Steve wanted to have as much time with him as possible. At this point, he knew, it was about quality, not quantity. But he hated it. Every so often it would hit him again, and every time it was like the first time all over again. He couldn't take it, so he shut it out, tried not to let himself think about it, tried not to notice how everyday it took Peter longer to wake up, how much less energy he had. At least he was happy. Steve had to hold onto that. He hadn't made a mistake, he hadn't.

Steve had been ignoring any calls from Shield. His work for them was strictly only advisory, and only casual, to fit around Peter – and Steve had resolved not to lose a second with him. He had taken the first call, explained he was unavailable for the time being, and then had ignored every call since. They had called him everyday, at exactly 11 o'clock. He supposed this was their version of consideration, because it was the time at the hospital that the children were washed and bathed, and he wouldn't be with Peter. Even so, he _had_ told them, and he didn't feel too guilty about screening them out. If there was some world-ending situation going on, they would come get him.

And that was what he thought was happening when Agent Romanov showed up on his doorstep one rainy morning. Peter's sleep cycle was all over the place, and they'd been awake since 4:30. They'd watched _Cars 2_ , managed to eat a bowl of cereal between them, and because Peter didn't feel like getting up and getting dressed, had ended up staying cuddled up under blankets on the couch, playing on the Starkphone Peter had been given. The young boy was fascinated by YouTube playlists and had begged Steve to get an account so they could make one, which of course he had. They sat there listening to increasingly obscure songs as they went from related video to related video, every single one of them getting added to Peter's playlist. Steve started to sing along despite not knowing the words, and Peter laughed, and Steve tried to share in it even though he noticed how out of breath Peter was getting. And at 11 o'clock, just as they were thinking about an early lunch, there was a knock on the door.

Steve wasn't pleased to see her. It was never good news when Shield came knocking.

'What's happened?' He asked, immediately trying to think who he could get to watch Peter if Shield needed him. No-one came to mind.

'You tell me.' Agent Romanov replied, pushing inside. 'We've been trying to reach you, Captain.'

'I told you I wasn't available. Peter is… I need to be with Peter.'

'This won't take long.' And just like that, she showed herself into the lounge. Peter looked at her in alarm. 'Hi,' Romanov said.

'H-hi,' Peter said, and Steve tried to look at him through a strangers' eyes, saw his tousled hair, his oversized Iron Man t-shirt and _Cars_ pyjama bottoms, heard his raspy voice, and hated it.

'Kitchen.' He said, firmly. He didn't want Shield anywhere near this part of his life. Romanov followed him through. 'What's happening?'he asked again.

'He's cute,' Romanov said. 'I didn't realise how much he looks like Richard.'

Steve nodded, wishing she would come to the point. He had worked with Romanov once or twice. She was efficient and effective in the field, and he trusted her to do what needed to be done. But they weren't friends, and just then he wasn't interested in small talk.

'What's going on with you and Tony Stark?' She asked, abruptly. Steve had not been expecting this.

'Nothing.'

'Captain. Steve. We know you had dinner with him.'

Steve ran a hand over his face. He should have realised. Of course Stark was exactly the sort of person Shield would be keeping a close eye on.

'I did, but it was just dinner. I won't be seeing him again.'

'Good, because he's a dangerous man. But what we want to know is what you were doing with him to begin with.'

Steve said nothing. He didn't see how this was any of Shield's business.

'You must realise how it looks,' Romanov said, examining one of Peter's drawings taped to the fridge. Steve resisted the temptation to take it down, put it somewhere she couldn't see it. 'You have a cosy little romantic dinner with a known vigilante and mercenary, one of the best, one that we haven't managed to stop, and the next day you tell us you're not 'available' to work with us any more, stop taking our calls… Fury is worried, Captain.'

'I bet he is,' Steve said, sinking into a chair. He suddenly felt exhausted. 'Look, it was nothing. Peter… Peter wanted to meet Iron Man. Stark agreed to come on the condition I had dinner with him. That was all there was to it. We haven't had any contact with him since.'

'You let that monster near your kid?'

' _Yes_ ,' Steve snapped. 'Why not, Romanov? Worried Pete will die? Because let's just say worrying about that is a little redundant.'

Her face softened slightly. 'That bad?'

Steve nodded tersely. He didn't want to think about this. He certainly didn't want to discuss it with a woman who would pass every last word onto Fury.

'Alright,' she said, heading back to the door. 'Just stay away from Stark, Steve. You'll wind up getting hurt. If he makes contact again, we want to know about it.'

'Fine.'

They headed to the door together. For a moment, it looked like Agent Romanov was going to say something else, but then she simply smiled, nodded, and left. Steve went back to Peter.

'Who was that?' Peter asked.

'Just someone from work.'

'Is she your girlfriend?'

'No. I don't really know her very well.'

'Okay,' Peter said, and Steve had no idea what he was thinking.

Either Shield had somehow known Stark was going to turn up the day following Agent Romanov's visit, Stark knew Steve had been warned off and had decided to come, or it was a complete coincidence. Either way, Steve wasn't too happy when he opened the door to find Stark there.

'Stark? What are you doing here?'

'Visiting,' he said, coming inside. 'Well, actually, I'm taking you out. Terrible security on this building, by the way. Anyone can just waltz in. Where's Peter?'

'Mr Stark!' Peter hadn't wanted to get up again that day, but now he was peering round the door to his room, and once he saw who it was, he beamed and ran across the room, throwing his arms round Stark's waist. Steve had never seen him greet anyone like that, except himself.

'Oof, there he is,' Stark said, patting Peter's back and untangling himself. 'Yeah, okay, hi, that's enough. Go get dressed, we're going out.'

'Okay!' Peter nodded, and went back to his room. He obviously would have run if he could, but his breath was failing him. Steve looked after him, worried, but knew he had to speak to Stark. The moment Peter's bedroom door shut he turned angrily to him.

'What are you playing at? I told you, once dinner was over we were done.'

'Yeah, and then you smashed my window so you owe me for that,' Stark shrugged, settling himself onto the couch to wait. 'Anyway, this is for your benefit. Have you even left the house since you brought Pete home? You need to get out, so does he. He's not dead yet.'

'Stark, it isn't up to you and Peter isn't up to it. You need to go.' Steve turned his back on him firmly, heading for Peter's room.

'Relax. We're only going to the museum, there's a bench every three feet if he needs it. Anyway, I thought he might find it interesting, get to know you better.'

'What?'

'They've made you a permanent exhibit.' Stark pulled a tightly-folded museum leaflet from his pocket, unfolded it and started to read. 'Due to popular demand, we're happy to announce that this summer's exhibit, _Captain America and the Howling Commandoes,_ will-'

'Stop,' Steve said, pushing the paper down, keeping his voice low. 'Peter doesn't know.'

'Yeah, and that's weird. Why not?'

Steve remained silent.

'Okay, so you didn't tell the world. I guess maybe you didn't want the publicity or something. But to not tell your own kid, that just seems dishonest. And I _hate_ it when people are dishonest, don't you?' He smirked. Steve looked more irritated than ever, but still didn't say anything. 'Come on, he ought to know.'

'There's nothing to know,' Steve snapped.

'The good folks at the museum seem to disagree,' Stark examined the leaflet again, 'As do 2 million visitors a year, apparently.'

'I'm not Captain America any more.'

'Why, because you haven't put on the suit for a while? Come on, that doesn't mean anything. Anyway, I think you should get it back out. I've seen the pictures, your ass looks great in it.'

'Stop it.'

'Sorry Cap, you can't argue with the evidence.'

'I'm going to check on Peter.'

'You going to let him die without knowing who you really are?'

'He knows who I am.'

'Not everything.'

'Everything that matters.'

Steve went into Peter's room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Peter was half-collapsed on the bed, wearing only a t-shirt, panting with effort. Steve hurried over, getting him sitting upright again, reaching for the mask attached to the tank. They were using it more and more often lately, and Peter didn't even protest any more.

'Alright,' Steve said, 'I think that's enough. We're not going anywhere today. I'll tell Mr Stark some other time.'

'Noooo,' Peter whined. 'I want to go! Please!' He was still wheezing, and now he was starting to cry.

'Another day, maybe, Steve said. 'Now just sit still for a bit until you feel better.'

'But I want to go!'

'Peter, I said no!'

Peter was crying in earnest now, which meant he had enough breath to do it. Steve went back to the lounge so he wouldn't have to see it. He had never made Peter cry before.

'You need to leave,' he told Stark. 'We had dinner. We're even. You aren't welcome here.'

'Fair enough,' Stark shrugged, got to his feet and headed for the door. Just as Steve was processing this, starting to think it had been too easy, Stark turned and collided with the side of his face. There really wasn't another word for it. Steve wasn't even sure if it was supposed to be a (very wet) kiss on the cheek or if it had been some sort of chin-first headbutt. Stark laughed at his expression, pinching his cheek. 'You're adorable,' he said, 'See you soon, sweetheart.' With that, he was gone.

Steve closed the door behind him, leaning heavily against it.

Maybe it had been a mistake after all. Stark was clearly insane; and while he seemed to be taking some twisted pleasure out of the constant rejections, Steve had to wonder how long this could go on for. Would Stark get fed up and leave them in peace? Or would he go the other way, and try to get what he wanted by any means necessary? Was he putting Peter at risk by refusing Stark's advances? He knew he ought to talk to Shield.

But he had promised confidentiality. He had signed several non-disclosure agreements to that effect. And behaviour since aside, Stark had been great at the hospital visit; showing Peter the simulation, taking the picture, giving him the phone… he had been so gentle with Peter, made him so happy. It was like two different people.

Steve suddenly remembered their first meeting in the bar, the confused haze he'd thought he'd seen in Stark's eyes. He had no idea what it meant, but it was hard to imagine Stark was a risk to Peter. And keeping quiet had been part of the deal.

If Stark gave him any new evidence of his Iron Man activities, Steve decided, he would tell Shield about it. If he gave the slightest sign of being a threat to Peter, he would tell Shield _everything_. But for now, he would just have to keep saying no.

Peter was still crying the bedroom, his wheezing getting worse. Steve went back to him, feeling like he wanted to cry himself, and wrapped him up in a hug.

For the first time in his life, Peter pushed him away. Steve let go. He had no idea what he should do.

'He's my friend!' Peter sobbed. 'I wanted to go!'

'I know, Pete, I know, but…' Steve wasn't sure where to begin. Even if he tried to explain that Iron Man wasn't a good guy, Peter wouldn't understand. And he was Peter's hero, no matter what happened , Steve couldn't take that from him. Not now. Not even if he had to be the bad guy himself. 'You aren't well enough.' He finished.

'Just go away and leave me alone!' Peter said. He could breathe well enough, so Steve did.

A tense morning followed. Peter played alone in his bedroom, Steve looking in on him every so often to make sure he was alright.

Steve had had some rough mornings before. His mother had died just after dawn one day. He'd woken up stiff as a board and soaked after sleeping in the mud for a mission. He'd spent mornings captured by the enemy, and mornings fighting, being shot at, running risks. He remembered distinctly watching the sun come up the first morning after he lost Bucky, and realising that this was the first day where Bucky wasn't alive, and that he wouldn't be every day for the rest of time.

He thought this morning might be almost as bad.

Around noon, he was standing in the kitchen making toast for their lunch, when Peter sidled in, hovering nervously in the doorway.

'Hey, buddy,' Steve said, as normally as he could. 'Want some toast?'

'Yes please.'

'Okay, go sit down.'

Peter went back into the living room and settled himself on the couch as Steve finished the toast, smearing Peter's in jam and cutting them into triangles. He did toast the old fashioned way, preferring the grill to the toaster, partly because he could do more slices at once, and it was all ready at the same time. Once Peter's was ready, he spread some butter onto his own and took the plates through.

'Thank you,' Peter said, as Steve put the plates down on the coffee table and settled down next to him. Then, abruptly, he turned to him and said 'Hey, Steve, what's this?' He held his hands up in front of him, all ten fingers spread wide.

'Your hands?'

'No, how many?'

'Ten?' Steve asked, taking a bite of his own food in the hope of encouraging Peter to do the same. If past experience was anything to go by, though, Peter would be so distracted by whatever they were talking about that the toast would be stone cold by the time he got round to it.

'No,' Peter said proudly. 'It's one-thousand and twenty-three.'

'Really?' Steve asked, taking his hand and pretending to examine it. 'You must have grown some more fingers since I last checked.'

Peter giggled. Steve squeezed his hand. Peter squeezed back.

'No,' he said, worming free. 'It's like binary.'

He then launched into a detailed description of some complicated system of counting on his fingers where each one was worth twice the amount of the one before. Steve didn't entirely get it, but Peter obviously did, and Steve was suitably impressed.

'Where did you learn that?'

'Mr Stark showed me a YouTube video,' Peter said, tentatively.

'Oh,' Steve said, 'Well, that's good. Now eat your toast.'

Peter obediently bit into his lunch. Steve watched him for a minute before he realised that he had been with Peter for the whole duration of Stark's short visit and this subject had never come up.

'When did he show you?' He asked.

'Um…' Peter said, his mouth still full, shuffling guiltily.

'Peter. When did Mr Stark tell you about that?'

Peter swallowed and bit his lip, worried.

'Has he been talking to you when I'm not around?'

'No…'

'Peter, this is really important. You aren't in trouble, but you need to tell me the truth!'

Some of his panic must have shown in his voice because Peter looked startled. Then he slowly pulled the phone Stark had given him out of his pocket.

'He showed me on here,' he almost whispered. Steve stared at it.

'He's been calling you?'

Peter shook his head.

'Texting?'

'He said it was a secret!' Peter wailed, his voice rasping as it always did when he tried to raise it. 'You can't tell him I told!'

Steve's heart was hammering so hard it was stopping him from thinking straight. He took a deep, shaky breath. If he freaked out Peter was going to get scared, or think he was in trouble. Steve tried his best to keep his voice steady.

'Is it okay if I look?'

Peter turned the phone over and over in his hands, reluctant.

'Peter. I need to see what Mr Stark has been talking to you about. Please?'

At last, Peter handed the phone over. Steve opened up the message screen, his blood running cold, his mind racing. The messages went back to their meeting, least one every day since the hospital visit. Mostly they seemed to focus on science and the suit, some of which Steve understood and some of which he was amazed Peter did. It was, he realised, entirely possible that Peter actually was a genius. His replies were rare, just now and then sending a greeting and what seemed like every emoji installed on the phone, but Stark clearly wasn't put off. Steve found the link to the YouTube video about counting near the top, and realised from the time stamp that it had been sent right under his nose, in the middle of dinner. Probably when he had been talking about Peter wanting to be able to work out multiplication on his fingers.

Right at the top, he found the messages telling Peter that Steve would be angry if he found out, and would take the phone, and that this was their secret and he mustn't tell anyone, making him promise not to tell. Steve gripped the phone so hard it almost snapped in two. He was tempted to do it, he was angry enough. But Peter was looking at him with large, anxious eyes, his breath catching noisily, which was as good as his breathing ever was these days. Steve forced his face back into a neutral expression.

'Okay, can I borrow this real quick? You can have it back after.' Peter nodded. 'Good boy. Finish your toast.' Steve flipped the TV onto a random kids' channel and made his way into the kitchen.

He had been so _stupid._ The messages were innocent enough, but if they were going to stay that way, why tell Peter it was a secret? Stark could have been sending him _anything_ , and Steve wouldn't have known.

Hands shaking with anger, he called the number Stark had been texting from. He picked up after the third ring.

'Hey Petey.'

Steve clenched the phone tighter. 'This is Steve.'

Stark didn't even pause. 'You know it's rude to snoop at someone's phone, Cap.'

'Peter told me.'

'Really? Huh, and he told me he could keep a secret.' Stark's voice was the picture of mild offence. Steve's control finally shattered.

'What the hell are you playing at?! Peter is four years old! How dare you-'

'You read the messages?' Stark interrupted, his voice icy cold.

'Yes.'

'Then you know there was nothing wrong with them. I was just giving the kid a bit of science and tech talk, a bit of mental stimulation, which, let's be honest, he wasn't getting from you.'

Steve's hands were shaking with anger. He couldn't speak.

'Seems to me you're only really mad about what _could_ have happened with some random guy texting your kid. And if you're mad about what could have happened, you're mad at yourself, not me.'

'You just leave Peter alone,' Steve said. 'Don't ever contact this number again.'

'Aww, gorgeous, don't be that way,' Stark said, his tone switching from cold disinterest to wheedling amusement. 'It was all for you.'

'Why in the hell would I want you to message my kid, telling him who knows what, behind my back and without my permission?!'

'Everyone knows the best way to the mother is to make friends with the kid, right?'

'You stay away from Peter,' Steve said again, his voice quiet. 'I mean it, Stark. You ever contact him again and I'll tell Shield everything. I'll put on the Captain America uniform that you're so damn obsessed with, stand up in court, and a national symbol will swear to the world that you're Iron Man.'

There was a deathly pause.

'I don't like threats, beautiful.'

'It's not a threat, it's a promise. If you don't like it then keep away from us.'

'Ah, see, no can do,' Stark said. 'You see, Captain, I've decided I want you. I'm going to have you, and what's more, you're going to enjoy it. You're going to beg for it. _That's_ a promise.' The line went dead as he hung up. Infuriated beyond words, Steve brought his fist up, about to slam it down on the phone, but remembered at the last minute that he had promised to return it to Peter, and hit the table instead. The plastic groaned in protest.

Stark would keep texting Peter, of that Steve was certain. Well, he wasn't going to let that happen. Hands still trembling with rage, he prised open the back of the phone and removed the SIM card, crumpling it before tossing it in the trash. Peter would still be able to play his games and get on the wifi, but, crucially, he would no longer have a phone number.

Steve reassembled the phone, forcing himself to calm down. He didn't notice the tracker embedded beneath the battery, still sitting there and still operational.

Peter was definitely getting too big for the pushchair, but it was the only way Steve was going to be able to get him out. Stark had been right about one thing; they had been cooped up in the house too long, and two days after his visit, when Peter seemed to be having a good day, Steve decided they ought to get out for some air. He loaded the tank into the bottom just in case, strapped Peter in and noticed how his knees were practically under his chin. Peter couldn't walk more than a few hundred yards without getting breathless. Steve wasn't sure how they were going to manage when he couldn't fit in the buggy any more. The hospital were unlikely to provide a wheelchair. He would just have to think of something else-

Except, of course, he wouldn't. Peter getting bigger wasn't going to be a problem. So he smiled, told Peter to put his ever-present phone safely into his coat pocket and set off.

Peter was quiet as they walked up to the park. It had been a long time since they had been out anywhere but the hospital, and he lolled back in the seat, looking at the clouds. Steve tried to strike up a game of finding shapes in the clouds, but Peter wasn't really into it, and in the end, Steve let him be. Once they'd reached the playground and he'd given Peter enough time to recover from the trip, he decided, he was going to let Peter go on the swings for as long as he wanted. If there were other kids waiting for a turn, they would just have to wait. That said, the streets were quiet, everyone was at work or school. With any luck, they'd have the whole place to themselves. He should have packed sandwiches.

In the end, they never reached the playground. They'd just passed through the park gates when a car rolled to a halt on the street behind them, pulling over right on the double yellows, and Stark stepped out.

'Hey there,' he smirked, strolling over. Steve gripped the handles of the pushchair tighter, and turned Peter to face away from them.

'Go away, Stark.'

'Rude. I was just saying hello.'

'And I'm saying goodbye.'

Stark's smirk became even more pronounced. 'I love it when you get all _firm_ and _commanding_.'

Steve huffed in exasperation and decided that if Stark wasn't going to leave, he would. He grasped the handles of the buggy again, and turned to go. He was stopped by Stark's hand on his arm.

'Hold up there,' he said, his voice soft. 'You want to be done? You've got to give me what you owe me.'

Steve wrenched free, eyeing the other man incredulously. 'Owe you?' he repeated. 'If this about the window, I told you to let me out. You didn't, you lost a window.'

'You agreed to have dinner with me.'

'Yeah, and we had dinner. Just drop it, Stark.'

'But we didn't have dessert,' Stark said, almost pouting. 'You owe me dessert. So when I saw you heading to the park, I thought, hey, let's get ice cream.' He tried to lean around Steve, to see the pushchair behind him. 'You want ice cream, right, Pete?'

Steve was between them in an instant. 'Leave him alone, Stark.'

'Oh, come on, surely I can talk to him when you're right here.'

'I don't want you talking to him at all!'

'Well, I don't think that's up to you.' In a flash, Stark had ducked round him and stepped round in front of the pushchair, face-to-face with Peter. 'We're friends, right, P– Crap, Cap, the kid!'

Steve wrenched the pushchair round. Peter was slumped in the straps, his head sagging onto his chest, his eyes closed and body limp. Steve tipped his chin up, rushing too much to be gentle, holding his hand up against Peter's lips.

No breathing.

'Lay him out,' he said to Stark. 'Lay him out on the ground, now!'

For a second Stark looked startled, then he obeyed, undoing the straps and lying Peter down on the ground as Steve got the tank out, opened the valves, pressed the mask to Peter's face.

It wasn't going to work. There was no rise and fall in Peter's chest, no change. The mask started to fog slightly as the air built up inside it. Steve stroked his hair.

'Nope,' Stark said, and Steve looked up to see him shaking his head frantically back and forth. 'Nope, nope, nope.'

Something was happening. Stark was wearing a buttoned shirt, open at the collar, his black flight suit just about visible beneath it. Except it wasn't just about visible any more. As Steve watched, the flight suit began to squirm, the hem stretching into thin, rubbery tentacles that were crawling up Stark's neck, as far as his chin. Steve sat up straighter.

'Stark?'

Stark didn't answer him. Steve noticed the flight suit was spreading at his wrists as well, the strange tentacles tumbling down over one another, covering his watch, his wrists, his hands, spreading over his fingers. He laid his hand, now as black and slick as if it had been coated with tar, over Peter's chest. A second later, Peter bucked and jerked as if he had been shocked. Stark did it again. Peter twitched violently. Coming back to himself, Steve shoved Stark away.

But then he realised. Peter was breathing now, his chest heaving.

'W-what did you do?' Steve asked, stroking Peter's hair again.

'Bio-Electrokinesis,' Stark grunted, and the flight suit was retreating now, withdrawing back into his shirt. 'Not important. Get an ambulance, he isn't out of the woods yet.'

Steve nodded and did so. Peter was all that mattered for now.

The thought kept coming into Tony's head – right now, Steve would let him do anything he wanted.

They were sitting in a corridor at the hospital, waiting, looking at the children's art work that had been put up to try and make the place seem jollier and more friendly. Maybe on a different day it would have worked, but not just then. Tony was pretty sure his companion hadn't even noticed it. The Captain was staring at the floor, looking distant. Peter had been whisked away behind closed doors as soon as they had arrived, the doctors saying they would 'see what they could do'. Nobody had told them anything.

'I didn't want it to be today,' Steve said, at last. 'You know, every night when we say our prayers-'

'Prayers?'

Steve shot him a look, finally leaning back in the chair. 'I'm his godfather, I make him say his prayers.'

'Right. Sorry. You were saying?'

'We say our prayers, and I think 'just one more day. If we can have just one more day, then it'll be enough. I'll be alright with it if I can have just one more day with him'. That's what I think, but then I think the same thing the next day, and the next day, and then you get a day like today and you realise... it is never going to be enough. We're not going to get enough.' His voice was shaking.

 _I could kiss him,_ Tony thought, gazing at that strong jaw line. _I could kiss him and he wouldn't push me away. Right now I could ask him to fuck me in the supply closet and he would._

It was tempting. He licked his lips slightly, preparing to speak, then stopped.

 _You can't take advantage just because he's vulnerable,_ some rational, kinder voice inside him said. _His kid is dying._

 _His kid is dying_ , the other part of him agreed. _He's so lost and alone. You could do whatever you wanted._

 _He's about to lose Peter. If he did anything, he'd regret it._

 _That isn't our problem. We'd get what we want. We saved the kids' life, he owes us._

'Stark?' Steve said, and he almost sounded concerned. 'What is it?'

Tony realised he'd been shaking his head slowly back and forth as he tried to listen to one voice over the other. He forced himself to be still and smiled.

'Nothing,' he said. 'Well, besides the obvious.'

They both looked over towards the doors. They remained shut.

'Whatever you did back there...' Steve said, 'You saved his life. Because of you, we got him here, and at least now there's a chance. I won't ever forget that. Thank you.'

 _Take him, now. Take his hand, lead him into that side room, it's empty, you can lock the door, get on the bed, it's only kiddy size but you can make it work, show him what you can do, make him moan, make him beg, make him plead, make him forget-_

'Anytime,' he said. _No,_ he thought.

'What was that?' Steve asked, after a moment's pause. 'That... thing you shocked him with?'

Instinctually, Tony drew back. 'My flight suit,' he said, guardedly. He didn't want Steve to ask him questions about that. He didn't like it when people asked him about that.

'Yes, but it looked like-' Steve stopped, abruptly, when a nurse came through the doors. She smiled at them, and carried on walking. Steve's face had become a battle ground of horror and hope when he had seen her, he had sat up straighter, and then crumpled again when he realised she didn't have news, his face turning blank and lifeless.

That was the final straw. He didn't want to see that face. Tony wasn't going to let this happen. He got to his feet.

'Where are you going?' Steve asked him.

'Home,' Tony said. He was the smartest man in the world. He was going to fix this.

The voice inside him roared with displeasure as he walked away, giving up his shot of seducing the Captain whilst he was an easy mark. This wasn't how Tony Stark did things. Tony Stark put his wants over everyone else's needs. He did not let the things he wanted pass him by when they were sitting there just waiting to be taken.

But it was fine, Tony told himself. It was easy. Save the kid, and the Captain would be so grateful he would tumble into bed with him without crying all over his covers.

This was all part of the plan.


	7. Chapter 7

On the front of Tony's fridge, half obscuring a child's drawing, was a neatly bullet-pointed plan of action, held up by thick electrical tape.

 _1._ , it read, _FIX KID._

 _2._ _EMPHASISE TO CAPTAIN HOW YOU FIXED KID._

The third point was simply a crudely drawn and rather explicit doodle, with the legendary Captain America shield in a strategic location.

At some point since the note's original posting, another point had been added, with a loopy arrow pushing it into position between points one and two.

 _1\. A. GET OSBORN :)_

This addition to the note probably went some way to explain why Tony Stark was currently not in his kitchen, nor anywhere else in Stark Tower. He was, in fact, out in the Iron Man suit, busily breaking into a secure research facility most people had no idea belonged to Norman Osborn.

He and Norman went way back, and Tony had never yet managed to deal a finishing blow in return for what Norman had done to him.

- _Years Ago_ -

Tony was, as usual, the first out of his language class. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy learning Mandarin, or that he didn't appreciate Meredith adding it to the syllabus when she realised he was already fluent in most major European languages thanks to a stream of increasingly exasperated nannies. It was just that he had an _idea_ , and it might work this time, and he needed to try it _now_.

He was so quick off the mark that he arrived at the state of the art lab suite before the previous group had emptied out of it. He bounced up and down impatiently, peering into the room. It was the top ability group in there, so hopefully they would pack away quickly. Well, top ability other than him. They'd given up trying to teach Tony anything about science just over two years ago, a few months after his arrival at the school, when it had become apparent that he knew more about it than the teacher.

Howard hadn't cared when Tony had told him, but Jarvis had been proud and even a little impressed. The school took boys aged 8 to 18, and as it was so small groups were decided on ability rather than age. Tony had joined the school aged 9, and been placed in science with a group that was mostly 11-13 year olds. Within a week he'd been put in the top set with the brightest of the graduating 18 year olds and a scattered handful of younger high-fliers, and after a few months he had been put into what they told his dad was 'self-study'. It basically meant that Tony alone of all the boys in the school was allowed to use the lab unsupervised and for his own research. It was his favourite place on earth. He was never allowed to use the lab at home, but here he had free reign. He had Meredith to thank for that, too.

She wasn't the sort of person Tony had imagined to be a teacher. Until coming here he had been home schooled by a string of increasingly exasperated private tutors, so his only idea of teachers had been from TV. Even though Jarvis had tried to console him, tried to explain to him that teachers _weren't_ the enemy, 9 year old Tony had been very much against the idea of being sent to school, and had made his objections known rather forcibly. Now aged 11, he couldn't believe he had been such a baby.

At first he had thought Meredith must be one of the parents. He'd seen her impeccable dress, her thick brown hair, seen that she couldn't have been older than 35 at the absolute most, and seen how Howard immediately turned on the charm; and thought that Howard would not flirt with one of his teachers. Except he would, and he did, and the older he got the less Tony could blame him. Meredith had a strong, lilting Irish accent that came out from behind a no-nonsense smile that seemed to send all the male teachers and older guys gaga. She introduced herself as what she called 'The Head of Lower School' and which actually translated to being the one in charge of the 8-12 year olds. The kids that liked her nicknamed her 'Auntie Meredith'. The ones that didn't called 'The Babysitter'. Tony was one of the kids that liked her. She neither went all gooey about his abilities like most of the adults Tony met, nor ignored them like his Dad. Instead she called him into meeting after meeting in her office, challenged him about playing up in class, actually _listened_ when he said he was bored, and found ways to try and challenge him. She even saw through him when he tried to use the 'I'm-only-terrible-in-class-because-I'm-bored' line to get out of gym class. He sort of hated her for that, but he respected her too. And all had been forgiven when she had given him his own key for the labs.

The last of the group filtered out of the room, followed shortly by the Science teacher, who still hadn't quite forgiven Tony for being more knowledgable than him and blocked the door when Tony tried to get in.

'It's lunchtime, Stark, you need to eat before you work.'

'But I only have an hour before the next class comes in!'

'The lab will still be there tonight.'

Tony looked at him, wondering how he could get him to understand that _tonight_ might as well have been a century away, that his burning desire was to test the idea _now_ and that it couldn't wait for something as silly as lunch, but the teacher seemed to read it in his expression, sighing and standing inside. Tony scurried in before he could change his mind.

'Just don't break anything,' the teacher said, shaking his head and passing through the still open door. Tony barely heard him, already digging in the high-stacked drawers that lined one wall of the room for what he needed. It was going to work this time, he just knew it.

Within minutes, Tony was so engrossed that he didn't even notice that other people had entered the lab until one of them kicked his book bag clear across the room. It thumped loudly against one of the windows, making Tony jump, scratching a line clear down the middle of his page of notes, and making the newcomers laugh like it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Tony knew who it was before his eyes had even torn away from the crumpled bag. Sure enough, he turned to see Osborn and his three favourite cronies. Tony had never bothered to learn their names.

'What do you want?' Tony spat, eyes narrowed.

'Just checking you're okay,' Osborn said, 'We worry about you, a _little kid_ , in here all alone.' His voice had turned to an exaggerated, childish tone, and he reached forward to ruffle Tony's hair. Tony threw it away as hard as he could, which was admittedly not very hard, and sized up the cronies instead.

Despite his chosen topic of torment, Osborn was neither much older nor much bigger than Tony, barely more than 6 inches and 18 months between them. Before Tony came, Osborn had been the smartest in the school, and hadn't taken kindly to being knocked off his pedestal. Admittedly Tony had not exactly helped the situation by rubbing Osborn's face in it at every opportunity, but still. He wasn't worried about Osborn, he could take Osborn. The goons, however, were a different story. They were all close to graduating, 17 or 18 years old, and twice his size. Tony didn't think they would _actually_ beat him up, but he was acutely aware that they could, which was probably all Osborn wanted.

'If you want to use the lab, Osborn, I'm happy to supervise you. Just don't touch anything without asking.' Tony knew from Osborn's face that he'd touched a nerve, and slid off his stool to his feet, just in case.

'In your dreams, Stark,' Osborn snapped. It was a rubbish come back, but in his defence he just wasn't as smart as Tony. 'What are you working on, anyway?'

Realising his mistake in an instant, Tony moved to snatch up his notes but it was too late. Osborn had already picked them up and begun to rifle through them. His eyes narrowed even more than Tony's had.

'Vita-rays? _Super serum_? What is this, Stark? Borrowed Daddy's notes so you can become the next Captain America?'

Tony bristled. Of course he didn't have his dad's notes, Howard never let him look at anything. And that was just for the Vita rays, Erskine's formula had been lost for decades. This was all his own work, and he was making real progress.

'Put the notes down, Osborn. It's not as if you could understand them.'

'See, if I thought it might actually work,' Osborn said, casually fanning the papers back and forth. 'I'd remind you that you aren't allowed to do this. You know the market-share agreement our fathers made after the war. Stark Enterprises gets technological warfare, Oscorp gets medical advancements and biological weapons.'

'Yeah? And how is that working out for you since biological weapons were banned?' Tony asked, taking hold of the papers and trying to pull them free. Osborn tightened his hold.

'A super solider would fall under _our_ remit, Stark. If our dads found out you were violating the agreement-'

'Our dads,' Tony said, softly, 'Won't be in charge forever.' A look of pure hatred passed over Osborn's face, an expression Tony knew was mirrored on his own. They understood each other perfectly. Osborn yanked the papers out of Tony's hands and was about to tear them apart when a fierce Irish voice interrupted them.

'And what's going on here?' Meredith had entered the room. Osborn dropped the papers back down on the desk.

'Nothing. Just wanted to check what Stark was up to.'

'Stark has permission to be in here, you boys don't.' Meredith jerked her head at the door. 'Get out before I give you all detention.'

'Sorry, miss,' Osborn said, still looking at Tony. 'I just worry about the damage he'll cause, in here all alone.'

'Oh, go stick your head in a pig, Osborn.'

Tony had no idea what the origins of the insult could have been, but he was delighted with the expression it produced on Osborn's face. Apparently unable to answer, Osborn and his cronies slinked away.

'This little feud is going to get the both of you into serious trouble someday,' Meredith said. 'You know, he's the next smartest in this school after you.'

'That's like saying the Earth is the _next biggest_ after the sun.'

'Wouldn't the next biggest be Jupiter?'

'Fine, Jupiter, but the sun is still ten times the size.'

'Huh, I thought it would be more.'

Tony laughed. Meredith was the best. He turned to go back to his experiment, but she waved a hand for his attention.

'Hold up, Tony. I heard back from the California Institute of Technology.'

Tony wrinkled his nose. The only university he was interested in going to was MIT, but his parents had said it was _too far away_ and _no, an eleven year old could not live in University dorms even if he was a genius_ and _no, it was not 'basically the same as boarding school'_. It was okay, though. He quite liked it where he was.

'I'm not interested in-'

'No, Tony, listen. I know you have your heart set on MIT and I have no doubt you'll end up there at some point, but right now you are an eleven year old with an unquantifiable IQ fortunate enough to have extremely wealthy parents and to go to school just down the road from one of the best Science and Engineering Universities in the country. Don't pull that face, you know it's true. So I've spoken to them, shown them some of your papers, and they've said while you are too young to live in dorms-'

Tony pulled a face. 'I'm not, I'm smarter than most of-'

' _And_ they don't usually accept students before they get a high school diploma at the very least-'

'That's stupid. If you can skip grades within a school, you should be able to just skip school completely if you're smart-'

'They _will_ take you for their undergraduate programme in the Autumn.'

Tony fell silent at last, looking at her. He was too used to being told he was 'too young' for things. His parents surely would never agree. And yet, Meredith said she would speak to them, and now she looked as if she was done talking. There was no 'but' in her expression.

'You'll still live and do your other lessons here,' Meredith said. 'But for your science lessons you will attend lectures at Caltech, and work towards your undergraduate degree.'

'You mean my _first_ undergraduate degree.' Tony smirked. Even Meredith had to laugh.

'Well, one hint of bad behaviour and I'll haul you back here and put you in basic science to see how quickly a marble rolls down a chute with the kindergarteners.'

'Okay, so only small explosions.'

'I mean it, Tony. Caltech said if you put a toe out of line the agreement is void.' She looked around the lab. 'The facilities should be better for you, anyway. Maybe you'll even find someone over there who has the slightest idea what you're talking about.'

Tony said nothing. The news was sinking in and the world was opening up. It was like when he had been given lab access, only better. Okay, so it wasn't MIT, but it was something. He was going to do college classes. He might even _learn something_. He wasn't going to be held back any more.

'Thanks, Meredith,' he said, and it came out quiet and shaky, as if his voice had gone somewhere far away behind the sudden lump in his throat. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

'Excuse me?'

Tony swallowed. Right. They weren't supposed to call her by her first name, at least not to her face.

'Sorry, I mean, thank you Miss Friday.'

That was the last conversation they had.

Strangely, probably due to some symptom of trauma, Tony could not really remember the events of that night. He could only remember how he recounted them just after five the next morning, when the firefighters had deemed it safe for them to go back into the building, and he had been marched straight to the principle's office.

It had been late. He hadn't been able to sleep, too excited about his work and college. He had decided to go to the lab. Yes, of course he had known it was after curfew, but he had gone anyway. He had got to the lab and found his key wasn't in there. He knew he couldn't ask for a teacher to let him in until morning, so he had gone to the library. That was why the boys in his dorm had said he wasn't in the room when the fire alarm went off. He had been in the library, and when the fire alarm had gone off he had waited until there was a reasonable flow of students and gone out with them, so he wouldn't be missed at the roll call. He'd had no idea that the lab was on fire, he hadn't known there was an actual fire at all. Miss Friday had probably thought it was him in the lab because, yes, normally it would be. But that night, it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't.

And Tony knew exactly who it was. Only one other person had touched his bag, while he was engrossed in his work and distracted enough not to notice them taking the key. It was Osborn, Norman Osborn, he had taken the key and snuck down and done _something_ in the lab, and Miss Friday had thought Tony was still in there, and now she was in hospital, in a coma, barely breathing, probably going to die, and everyone thought it was his fault.

The principle had not believed him. Nobody believed him, even when he tried to argue that he knew what he was doing in the lab and wouldn't have caused a fire. His parents didn't believe him. Jarvis didn't believe him, and was on his way to pick him up right then. Tony was permanently and immediately excluded, and there might be a criminal investigation. Two newspapers had already phoned.

He was sent back to his room to pack, but he didn't go. There was only one thought in his brain. _Norman Osborn_.

It didn't take long to find him. He was in one of the outermost common rooms, known as 'The Hunting Lodge', after the style of the décor. In somewhat bad taste, the log fire was still burning in the grate. Osborn looked up and away from it, startled, when Tony burst in.

'I'm sorry,' he blurted. 'I didn't realise- I didn't mean- I didn't think anyone would go looking for you in there.'

And the haunted look in his eyes was enough to convince Tony that Osborn was, for once, being sincere.

'Then confess,' Tony said. 'They don't believe me! Tell them it was you!'

'I... I can't. My father-'

'And what do you think my dad is going to do to me?!' Tony demanded. 'They're expelling me! Caltech won't take me! You have to tell them!'

But Osborn just looked at him. He looked lost, frightened. He didn't say anything.

'Tell the truth!' Tony roared, and launched himself at Osborn, thinking wildly that he could _force_ him, drag him to the teachers and _make him_ tell them-

But then there were hands on his shoulders pulling him away, and when that didn't work arms around his torso dragging him off, and Tony knew those surprisingly-strong arms, and knew Jarvis was here already, that it was over.

Miss Friday was in a coma for seven years. When she did finally wake up, helped along by some Oscorp medical tech, her mind didn't come with her. She was doolally. Gaga. Tony visited exactly once, and never went back. She died of a stroke at age 53, having lived not much of a life at all. The blame lay solely at Norman Osborn's door.

Tony's life started going off the rails after his ignoble exit from his first school, too. After that it was school after school, expulsion after expulsion, because what did they think was going to happen when they put a genius in what they called 'age-appropriate' classes? His life was long stretches of boredom at boarding school, where he was forced to make his own fun, and then brief spells at home with Howard yelling at him for getting thrown out again and insisting he still had a nanny because he 'couldn't be trusted'. Somehow, he survived his education. He was finally allowed to go to MIT, and thank goodness for that, because he sure as hell couldn't have survived another school. Jarvis died just before he started, but there were drinks and parties and real friends for the first time in his life, and _labs_ , and even his dad finally started to realise his potential, but then his parents died too and he was alone, in charge of a company that employed thousands, with no clue what he was doing because, guess what, he had never learnt how. All of that was Osborn's fault too.

Soon after, Osborn became head of Oscorp too, and all deals were off. There were more drinks, more parties, more girls, and the satisfaction of his stocks trashing Osborn's. It was never quite enough. Tony tried to ignore it. By then, he was old enough and sort-of mature enough to realise they had just been stupid kids, that if he had been in Norman's position he might not have confessed either, and that a revenge trip wasn't going to do him any good.

But he couldn't help it. Every time he made a bigger and better weapon, he would try to focus on the technological miracles he was working, that America could sleep safer, that he was richer, that the jobs of his employees were safer. But always, always, in the back of his mind he would note that Oscorp had been pushed a little further out of the market.

And then there was Afghanistan, and the end of everything.

Yinsen told him never to look inside the closet.

It wasn't a closet, exactly. It looked to be another alcove of the cave they were being held in, only closed off with a thick wooden door, chained and padlocked. Sometimes Tony thought he could hear something moving inside it. He eyed it sceptically, worried there was some poor person trapped inside.

'Why? Is there a big scary monster in there?'

'Yes,' Yinsen said simply, and Tony didn't ask any more questions. It didn't matter. He was going to fix all of this. Other people, not enemy soldiers but innocent people were getting hurt, because of what he had made. He swore to himself that when he got home, when he got out of this, he was going to put it right. He was going to make the world better. He just had to get out first.

He got back to work.

Days passed, followed by nights in turn. Tony's pallet was nearest the locked closet. Some nights, he dreamt he could hear a voice whispering to him from behind the door. Most nights, he didn't sleep.

They were discovered too soon. They hadn't yet worked out a way to regulate the power to flow evenly from the arc reactor to all parts of the armour without burning out in seconds, and in normal circumstances Tony would have ditched it as a power source altogether and replaced it with solar panels or something. There was certainly more than enough sun here, on the rare occasion he got out to see it. Unfortunately, he didn't have any solar panels. Or any decent tools. He was working with a soldering iron he knew for a fact was older than he was. It was a miracle the armour worked at all.

But it _did_ work. More or less. He and Yinsen had built the suit in a strictly prioritised order, knowing there was only so long they could disguise the shape of it and that eventually even the most slow terrorist in the world would realise it was too man-shaped to possibly be a missile. So they came, sooner than Tony had hoped but, if he was honest, later than they could have reasonably expected.

Yinsen died in the doorway to their cell, buying him a few extra seconds to get the suit online and operational. Tony got all the way out into that scorching desert sun, and he flew up and away and the hell out of there.

It lasted less than a minute. He'd used too much power shooting his way out into the open. The suit burnt out, and he was falling, and the last thing his swirling vision made out clearly was the entrance to the cave; he'd only climbed, he'd barely moved thirty feet. But there was nothing he could do about it, and, utterly powerless, he ploughed into the ground. Everything went black.

He woke up an indeterminate amount of time later, tied to a chair, and being screamed at in a language he did not understand. (He briefly cursed Meredith for only teaching him Mandarin instead of whatever regional-dialect-of-something this was.) Even so, it didn't take a genius to work out what they wanted, as the leader pointed back and forth between himself and the broken pieces of the suit that lay on the workbench. He was back in the same old cell. He glanced towards the cell door. They hadn't yet removed Yinsen's body.

Possibly they were trying to scare him into obedience, but if that was the goal it had the exact opposite effect. For months, ever since they had taken him, Tony had been numb; any emotions he felt walled away somewhere inside where they couldn't overwhelm him. But now they had breached the dam and rage like a flood was crashing over him.

He shook his head. They weren't having the suit.

They punched him. He still shook his head. They hit him again.

And the next few minutes were a blur of pain and anger as he struggled against the restraints, being pummelled from all sides, doing his best to headbutt, to bite anyone that came close enough. If he could just get a hand free -

Suddenly, as if answering his wish, his left hand came out of the restraints and he realised that they were untying him. Realistically he knew if they were releasing him it probably wasn't for anything good, but just then it didn't matter to him. He kicked and punched and got in as many hits as he could before they managed to hold him still.

They were marching him towards the closet door. The youngest of their little band of merry men, looking as if he was barely more than a child and as if he knew he was in way over their head, was standing holding the padlock and key with shaking hands. Following a barked order from his superior, he opened the lock, pulled away the chains and bars, and wrenched the door open.

It was dark inside. Something moved.

Tony definitely did not want to go in there, but he wasn't given a choice. He was shoved inside and the door slammed. He heard the grating and rattling as the defences were replaced.

It was completely dark inside. There wasn't so much as a millimetre of space between the door and the dirt floor of the cave. He couldn't even make out an outline of the door. Only the diminished glow of the fading arc reactor gave the slightest illumination to the space.

Once the door was locked, it fell completely silent. Either sound was being muffled by the heavy door or the men on the other side were neither moving nor speaking, and barely breathing. Possibly, probably, it was a combination of both.

Tony wondered what exactly the goal was. To scare him into obedience? That seemed more likely than them pushing him into this cubbyhole and leaving him to die. They needed him to mend the suit. And yet, he couldn't get the kid's face out of his mind as he had opened the door. He had been terrified, they all had, that was why they had made their most-expendable member take the locks off. Yinsen had said there was a monster in here.

Hesitantly, Tony began to feel around the walls, his fingers making sense of what his eyes couldn't. It really was just a little natural alcove that had been sealed off, his fingers finding the bend where the side met the back with only a single step forward. Only just deeper than an arm's length, then. Placing one hand flat on the right hand wall, he reached out with his left to see how far across his new prison was.

His hand pressed into something cold, and viscous, and definitely not stone. He might have thought it was algae or fungus, except that as soon as he touched it, it ran away. His hand was left pressed against stone, just like on the right.

Only just managing to swallow the scream that he did not want the men outside to hear, Tony pressed his lips tightly together and cautiously turned to face the left hand wall. He shuffled forwards, trying to focus the weak light of the arc reactor enough to know what he was dealing with.

He felt the cold, tentacle-like touch climbing up his ankle and looked down to see a puddle of thick looking liquid, darker than the darkness, like melted rubber or pure tar, pooling out beneath and around and over him. His blind panic, the manic swipes he made at it made no difference. It was spreading up his body, over his clothes, and when he tried to pull it away, it flowed around his hands like water. His breath was coming in horrified gasps now, because this was worse even than when he had woken up with a car battery attached to his chest; because he could feel the tar adhering to his bare skin, creeping in around his clothes, becoming part of him.

It reached his chin, his mouth, his eyes and ears, swallowed him up, and then Tony understood.

The terrifying darkness was gone as the scene played out in his mind's eye; a meteor crashing all the way out here in the desert of planet Earth, bringing the creature with it, dropping it under the sun. _The hateful, burning sun_.

The creature was weak from its journey, from too long without a host, but it made it to the shade of this cave. It waited. It recuperated.

Sometimes, the natives of the planet – humans – came to the cave and tried to kill it, to hurt it, to cast it out with fire and knives and shouts. The creature did not like that. The creature defended itself. The creature killed them. And because of the way it killed them, with a short, sharp shock like a poisonous sting that didn't leave a single mark, the locals had started calling it _Venom_.

But it had been weak then. There were better ways to kill. Yes, much better. And they would come, when it was strong. When it had a host.

After that, the men had come and taken over the caves, with their electric lights almost as bad as the sun, and their radios and noise and their guns and weapons and Venom had been driven back, in here, to this little patch of dark and quiet. Sometimes they pushed people in here, men and women and children too, and they had all died. None of them were strong enough.

But Tony was strong enough. He was smart, and had lived even though his little human heart was damaged, and he was full of rage and terror and all the things that Venom liked. He could be a worthy host.

And then Venom was looking into his memories instead, pulling them out of him, everything that had happened to him that Tony hadn't been able to stop or control or do anything about. And it told him, it promised him what Tony wanted more than anything in the world:

 _You will be in control. Nothing will happen unless you want it to. You will be the strongest. You will be the most powerful. You will never again be powerless._

Tony agreed, because he recognised those 'stings' for what they were; blasts of electrokinetic energy that would be perfect to power the suit, lying in pieces on the other side of what now seemed to be a very flimsy wooden door. Venom had only needed a host to break out, and Tony, it turned out, had only needed Venom.

He had never had cause to regret his decision. The creature from the cave served as the perfect flight suit, a perfect companion that helped him take back control, remove the variables from his life, and power the suits. Once he had sorted out his own life, Tony had remembered his resolve to make the world a better place, and had started to remove the scum from it. His flight suit remained, always present, content against his skin.

Something had happened, though, when he had met the Captain and Peter. There was a stirring of discontent from the suit that was now a part of him, because he was doing things a little differently to how he had in the past few years. Tony started to wonder, dimly, how many of his ideas were actually his; and why he had never wondered before.

But he was just being paranoid, because ever since he had started on this symbiotic relationship his course of action had always been clear, and now he wasn't sure. Things would return to normal as soon as he finished his plan and made the Captain his, at least for a night or two. Step One towards that end was to fix Peter, who was so little and so kind and so excited by science and idolised Tony and didn't deserve-

He was getting distracted. Tony pulled his mind back to the task at hand, which was disabling Osborn's security system.

 _Or rather,_ Tony thought, _'Security system'._ The whole thing had been so laughably simple, a ripped-off version of something Stark Industries had put out shortly before Tony had shut it all down. It was so easy to get through that he almost expected it to be a trap, but besides half a dozen guards that were quickly stopped by a blast from a repulsor beam and a few locked and hidden doors, Tony barely encountered any resistance. He was in and out before a single alarm went off.

Doctors couldn't save Peter. Even if Steve had been able to afford the best doctors in the world, they would not have been able to save Peter. But doctors weren't as smart as Tony, and, unlike him, didn't have illegal-access to the barely-legal experiments of major corporations, Howard Stark's Vitaray research, a few precious scraps written by Erskine giving hints at his formula, and the DNA profile of the strongest symbiote in the universe.

Not that he was going to give Venom to Peter. The little kid was too weak to handle it, and anyway, Tony needed it. No. Peter wasn't getting any of it. Not the smallest drop.

But Tony could _look_ at it. Draw inspiration. Try to see where it got its strength, and duplicate it; just as he was going to do with Osborn's experiments into insect strength and animal regeneration, with his Dad's pre-Chernobyl radiation-is-good-for-you notes, and with what he knew or guessed about what had made Steve, physically at least, into Captain America.

'Alright, Jarvis,' he said, as he re-entered his lab. 'We are officially on lock down. I'm about to save an orphan so I can seduce his father.'

'Yes, sir,' the soulless voice of the AI said. As if anyone ever came to visit Tony anyway.

Tony always lost track of time when he was in his lab, but when the cure was ready the tracker he had placed in Peter's phone was still showing at the hospital, so hopefully he wasn't too late. He flew over there, stepped out of the armour, and continued inside wearing only his flight suit and armed only with a syringe and what would look, to the untrained eye, like an innocent nicotine patch. If all went to plan, it would be all he needed. He followed the tracker to Peter's room, and peered through the small window in the door.

Despite the fact it was the early hours of the morning, Steve was still awake, looking distinctly unkempt and dishevelled (and damn, that was as sexy as it was tragic), trying to read a book but unable to keep his eyes off Peter, who was lying asleep in the bed, hooked up to half a dozen different pieces of equipment. His phone was on the cupboard beside the bed, hooked up to some speakers, quietly playing music. Even at that volume, Tony felt his suit coil in disgust. Well, he would stop it soon enough. First of all, he just had to act natural.

He tapped on the door. Steve looked up, registered it was him, and looked somewhat surprised as he strode over to open the door.

'Tony-' He said, but that was all he had time to say.

'Hi, Cap,' Tony said, pressing the patch to his neck. It had enough sedative in it to knock out several elephants, which he hoped would be enough for one super soldier. Steve swayed, and Tony just about managed to steer him back into the chair before he had to support his weight entirely. It was a necessary precaution. Steve probably wouldn't like the idea of highly-experimental medicine being used on his kid, and Tony couldn't have him interfering, not now.

Now for the music. He scrambled round the bed, grabbing the phone and closing what turned out to be a Youtube playlist. The change in sound level seemed to wake Peter up, and his eyes fluttered open, slowly taking Tony in. He made a small rasping sound that might have been _'Mr Stark?'_ , and then glanced at his phone in apparent confusion.

'Sorry, kid, my friend here doesn't like music,' Tony said, tapping the flight suit and wondering why he was telling Peter this. To build trust, he supposed, because Peter would need to trust him for what was going to happen next.

Peter's eyes were full of confusion, however, and now they moved uncertainly towards Steve slumped in the chair. Tony didn't want him to look at _that_ too closely, so quickly drew Peter's attention back to himself.

'It's alright, Steve's just having a little nap. I'm going to take care of you for a bit, okay?'

Peter hesitated, and then his head twitched ever so slightly, the closest thing to a nod he could manage. Tony started unhooking Peter from the various machines and IVs, leaving only the breathing tube. He didn't want anything else getting pumped into Peter's system at the same time as the cure when he wasn't sure how they would mix.

He prepared the syringe, turned over Peter's unresisting hand, and injected it into his wrist. Then several things happened at once, that took a moment for Tony to sort out in his head.

The sound was Peter moaning, groaning, and eventually screaming in pain, crying out for it to stop.

The thing that he was lying on was the hospital floor, and the thing that had crashed into him like a freight train to put him there was Steve, just a little too late. Apparently Tony had wildly underestimated either how much sedative was needed, or how much difference Steve's instincts to protect Peter were. Either way, he was now being dragged to his feet and lifted, slammed into the wall, pinned by the neck. Dots swam on the edges of his vision.

'What have you done?!' Steve demanded. 'What the hell have you done to him?!'

'Helped,' Tony croaked, pulling on the arm pressed to his windpipe and failing to move it an inch.

'Helped?!' Steve barked. 'Listen to him! He's in pain!' And he released Tony slightly, only to slam him back, painfully, against the wall.

'No,' Tony said, 'You listen, Captain.'

And Steve did. Slowly, his grip loosened, and Tony slid to the floor. His gasps of air, however, were lost. Peter was crying, and the sound was loud enough to fill the room, drowning out all other noise in the wail that could only come from some very full, very healthy lungs.


	8. Chapter 8

' _Peter_ , I am not going to tell you again! Sit still.'

Peter pouted and flopped back onto the bed. He'd been feeling better for _ages_ , ever since he had woken up, but neither the doctors nor his dad would let him get out of bed, let alone leave the hospital.

He'd decided, recently, that it was maybe okay to call Steve his dad after all as long as it was only in his head. He knew Steve didn't like it when people called him that, so Peter never said it out loud, and he had even tried not to think it, but then Mr Stark always called Steve his dad, and he wouldn't do that if it wasn't at least a bit okay.

'I need you to stay in bed just a little longer, buddy, alright? They just need to make sure you're really better.'

'But I _am_ better,' Peter protested. He didn't get why his dad didn't understand. Mr Stark had fixed him, and everything Mr Stark did would work like it was meant to. But then he had been really sick, and probably dying, so maybe his dad just hadn't managed to turn off the worry part of his brain yet. He wished Mr Stark was still here, so he could explain.

Peter didn't remember too well what had happened. He thought he had woken up in the middle of the night, and Mr Stark had turned his playlist off because _his friend didn't like it_ , and then he had injected something into Peter's arm.

It had hurt. Peter didn't like to think about that part. Mr Stark had injected him with fire, and it hurt, and went all round his body and kept burning, even though his dad had been there stroking his hair and saying it was okay, and it had _hurt_ , and eventually the doctor had given him something else that made him really sleepy and not notice the hurting so much.

But it had still hurt, and he hadn't been able to sleep properly, and everything was all mixed up in his head, and he knew he had heard his dad and Mr Stark talking and talking for _ages,_ about _experimental medicine_ , and Mr Stark wouldn't tell his dad what had been in it, and his dad had been worried about _side effects_ and Mr Stark said he wasn't worried about it, but said he wasn't going to release the cure for other kids, which his dad said meant he must be worried a little. He couldn't remember any more, just little sentences that didn't make sense on their own.

And then he had woken up, and felt _fine_ , better than fine, better than he had ever felt his _whole life_ , and his dad asked six billion times if he was _sure_ he was okay and it didn't hurt, and still didn't believe the answer.

He had explained it all to Peter. How Mr Stark had made some new medicine for him, and it seemed to have made his lungs and heart stronger and work properly, but because nobody else had ever had the medicine before they needed to make sure it hadn't done anything it wasn't supposed to. Peter asked where Mr Stark had gone, and his dad had given one of the non-answers adults gave when they thought things were too hard for kids to understand, and had changed the subject. Peter just hoped Mr Stark was okay. He had saved Peter's life. And his dad used to say Iron Man wasn't a hero.

A doctor had come back in and was talking to his dad in the corner. Peter strained to hear but all he caught was that they were talking about 'inexplicable anomalies' in his blood. Peter shook his head. _Of course_ his blood was different now, Mr Stark had probably put a load of different drugs in it. Besides, his blood would have more oxygen in it now than it ever had before, that would make it look different from before, too. He couldn't blame his dad for not getting it – Steve was good at playing, hugging and sports, but not science – but the doctor should have understood.

They talked for _ages._ Peter knew he had to stay on the bed, but all his toys and birthday presents were in the locker across from his bed. He lay down on the very edge and stretched as far as he could across the room. He didn't get anywhere near.

Peter huffed loudly and rolled back onto his back, but even that didn't get his dad's attention. He was _so bored_. It was one thing to lie in bed all day when you were sick and sleepy, but now he _finally_ felt better, and he was _still_ stuck here. Mr Stark wouldn't put up with this kind of thing, Peter was sure. Mr Stark would probably have been able to make some machine out of his blankets and the glass of water on the bedside table.

He sat up so quickly he nearly knocked the water over, wondering how he had missed something so obvious. If he couldn't leave the bed, and there was nothing fun in the bed, he would just have to _make_ fun. And there was something he had always wanted to try.

It took him a few attempts, tucking his chin into his chest and butting his head on the mattress, pushing upwards with his feet, until it finally happened. He rolled, all the way over, ending up looking at the ceiling, sprawled at the end of the bed. He beamed and turned onto his front, ready to do it again, but he had finally got his dad's attention.

'Peter.' He sounded exasperated, but pleased and definitely not mad.

'I did it! I did a forward roll!'

'I know, I saw,' his dad said, and pulled Peter into a tight hug. He was smiling as much as Peter was. At least he appreciated how cool this was. A few days ago, Peter would never, _ever_ have been able to do something like that.

'Can I do it again?' Peter asked, worming free. 'I promise I'll sit still afterwards!'

His dad glanced at the doctor, who said nothing, and then answered, 'Of course you can, Peter. Do it as many times as you want.'

'Really?!'

'Really.'

So Peter did, rolling back and forwards on the bed, and his dad even showed him how to tuck his head in better so it didn't hurt his neck and kept him going straight so he didn't fall off. It was the most fun Peter had had in _forever_ , and he couldn't stop laughing, but when he looked at his dad to see if he was enjoying it too, he saw tears in his eyes, like he was about to cry. Peter stopped rolling immediately, the happy feeling pushed right out of his stomach by a much more familiar dread. He hated it when his dad was sad. But he wasn't dying any more, so his dad should be happy? Right?

'Steve? What's the matter?' Peter asked, trying to ignore the twisty, sick feeling in his guts that he knew had nothing to do with the forward rolls.

'Nothing,' his dad said, which was another non-answer. Peter decided the best way to make him feel better was a cuddle, so he clambered off the bed and onto his dad's lap, snuggling into his chest. His dad wrapped his arms around him.

'Hey, hey,' he said, 'It's okay. Sometimes people cry when they're happy.'

'Like at weddings in movies?'

'Right.'

'...but we aren't at a wedding.'

His dad laughed at the joke, and Peter laughed too, because it felt funny feeling the laugh vibrate in his dad's chest.

'I'm just really happy you're okay, Peter.'

'Me too. Can we go home yet?'

'Soon.'

'Okay. Can I do some more rolls while we're waiting?'

'You aren't tired?'

'No.'

'Then sure.'

But neither of them moved. Peter wasn't tired, and he _did_ want to do more rolls, but it could wait. Hugs were nice too.

Bed had rarely been a more appealing prospect for Steve.

Shortly before he had been injected with the Super Soldier serum, Doctor Erskine had taken him through what they thought it would mean for his body. That he could run faster, move more smoothly and had greater strength than anyone had thought possible became evident minutes after the experiment was over. But the other capabilities, that he would be able to go longer and function better without food, water, or sleep, had taken longer to establish.

In terms of food, Steve felt it went both ways. Normal military rations barely seemed to touch the sides, but when food was in such short supply it had seemed wrong to complain he was constantly hungry. He noticed the hunger didn't make him as cranky as it used to, though, and then, out in the Russian tundra with the commandos, they worked out he could go eight full days without eating before he started to struggle with fatigue. He still didn't know how long he could survive without it, but didn't feel like testing it.

With water, his limit was much lower. He had managed five days before he started to feel headachey and dehydrated. Again, he did not know how long he could survive without it.

The longest he had gone without sleep was nine days, the same week he had been on the mission that had left him without food. He'd been fed when he finally arrived back at base, but had been forced to go through several long debriefs after that, and then Dugan had been injured and he had sat up waiting for news. He'd slept for a full 24 hours afterwards, and had felt refreshed. In the back of his mind, he wondered whether lack of sleep would ever kill him, even if he tried to stay awake for the rest of his life.

Survivable or not, none of it was very pleasant. If he could afford to do it, he would have eaten six meals a day and slept for ten hours a night. And this hospital stay, with Peter, was really messing with him.

He had lost track of exactly how long he had gone without food, sleep or water, but even if it had been a few days it had been well within his limits. The difficulty came, he knew, from the emotional toll. Peter had been dying, slowly slipping away, and Steve had thought nothing could be worse. Then, two days later, Stark had shown up and injected Peter with who-knew-what, and Peter's lungs had filled for the first time since the day he was born.

But it had been a dreadful night. After a few moments of hope, it became clear that the pain was not subsiding. Peter was in agony, burning up at his touch, twisting around in his bed, slipping in and out of conciousness – and there had been nothing Steve could do. He'd wanted to get a doctor right away, but Stark had blocked the door.

'It'll work,' he'd said, 'You just have to trust me.' For once, he hadn't even sounded convinced himself.

And Steve hadn't been sure what injecting Peter with more drugs would make happen, was worried it would react badly, and so had gone to sit by his side and stroke his hair. It didn't get any better.

After an hour of anxiously watching Peter and seeing no improvement, Steve had insisted on getting a doctor. He would have fought Stark if necessary, but the man let him go. Steve wasn't sure how they were going to explain what had happened to make Peter react like this, but the doctor didn't even ask. She looked at Peter's notes long enough to see he was terminal, went through the usual platitudes about making him 'comfortable', and hooked Peter up to a painkiller. Peter had finally subsided into a restless sleep, and Steve had the rest of the night to talk to Stark.

It soon became obvious that Stark had no intention of telling Steve the whats, whys and hows. His main goal, it seemed, was to keep repeating to Steve that he had saved Peter's life, as if Steve somehow hadn't been grateful enough. When Steve had tried to ask about side effects he had been downright brusque. Equally, when Steve had asked whether the medicine could help other children, Stark had just said it was 'impossible', and gone back to talking about how he had, single handedly, saved Peter.

But something was wrong, Steve could tell. Tony kept glancing at where Peter tossed and turned in the bed, and seemed to doubt himself as the hours wore on. Eventually Steve realised that Stark wasn't sure it had worked; that, or he had not expected Peter to be in so much pain. In the end, Stark left. Steve was left alone to sit and to wait, hoping that this would work.

Apparently it had. Around three in the morning, Peter had settled into what seemed like a peaceful sleep, and had woken up at 7.30, bright-eyed and raring to go. It was all Steve could do to keep him still long enough for the doctors to perform the various scans, tests and samples they needed to work out if he was really alright. By three in the afternoon, Peter was so bored he was literally doing somersaults on the bed.

Somehow, then, that was when Steve knew Peter really was _cured_. The pain of the night before didn't seem to have bothered him at all, and now he was doing things he could never have done, even on the best of his good days. Steve had wanted to cry, and only Peter's concern had stopped him breaking down completely.

For the first time, he had a pang of regret about destroying the SIM card in Peter's phone. He would have liked to have called Stark, to tell him that everything was fine, that Peter was finally _well_. In all of this, he had never got the man's number. It was probably for the best, though. Clear boundaries were obviously essential with the man.

But he had been different, last night. Steve had seen the occasional flicker of doubt or discomfort on Stark's face once or twice in the past, but he really had seemed almost distressed by Peter. Not that it was easy for anyone to see a child suffering, but it was a little unusual in a mercenary.

Steve sighed. He couldn't forget that, no matter what he had done, Stark was dangerous. And , from the looks of things, a little deranged.

'Steve?' Peter said, uncertainly. He never missed anything. Steve quickly went back to smiling. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' Steve said, reassuringly. 'I just hope the doctors come back with your results soon.'

'Me too,' Peter agreed, fervently. The doctors were being extremely thorough in their examinations. Apparently Peter doing forward rolls continuously on his bed for half an hour wasn't enough proof that he had been cured and they were stuck waiting for them to be completely satisfied before Peter could be discharged.

And then it hit Steve all over again. Peter would be discharged. He had a whole future in front of him. He would go to school, grow up, go to work, maybe get married, have his own kids, live a whole life.

Steve needed to start thinking about schools. And college funds. And probably a million other things about child rearing that he had never looked at because the fact Peter would never need them had been too painful. Where did he even start?

The spiral of pleasant, panicky thoughts was stopped abruptly when Stark breezed in, looking, as usual, as if he owned the place. The discomposure that Steve had seen in him last night seemed impossible to imagine now, as he strolled in, obviously completely certain that Peter would be fine, calmly carrying a balloon in the shape of Lightning McQueen.

Before Steve could say anything, Peter had let out a delighted yell and launched himself across the room, sending the balloon floating up to the ceiling and Stark staggering into the wall as he just about managed to catch him. Steve was so taken aback that he missed the start of what Peter was saying. He didn't have much experience with four year olds other than Peter, but he had never seen even the fittest of them jump that far.

'-knew you would, well, I didn't know you were trying-' Peter was babbling, as Stark dropped him onto his feet, awkwardly patting his shoulder. 'But once Steve said _you'd_ given me medicine, I knew it would work, I just knew it, because everything you make works and I can do forward rolls now and look!' He took a deep breath in.

'That's great, kiddo,' Stark said, taking the opportunity. 'Glad you're feeling better. Mind if I talk to your Dad a second?'

Peter pouted, but politely said he didn't mind at all. Steve followed Stark out into the corridor.

'He seems to be doing much better.'

'Yes,' Steve agreed. 'It's a new lease of life. I really can't thank you enough.'

He knew he had chosen his words poorly when Stark's face twisted into a smirk.

'I'm glad you agree,' he purred.

'...Excuse me?'

Stark moved closer, brushing the very tips of his fingers along Steve's bare arm before closing his hand around his elbow.

'We need to talk about how you're going to thank me,' he said. 'Let's see, you came to dinner with me just because I spent five minutes with Peter on his birthday. So now I've spent days in the lab, broken into some top-security bases of research, used some highly confidential material and saved your kid's life. So, if dinner is equal to five minutes of my time, I would say that little piece of work definitely entitles me to...' He paused, delicately, greedily eyeing Steve up and down before choosing his next word. '... _dessert_.'

Jerking his arm upwards, Steve got out of his grip, shaking his head. 'You're sick.'

'Maybe.' Stark shrugged. 'Know who isn't, any more? Peter.'

'And I will always be grateful for that,' Steve said. 'But, Stark – Tony – I'm _not_ going to sleep with you. That was, and is, just never going to happen. It's never been on the cards.'

'Maybe not on _your_ cards-'

'Not on any cards. Look, Stark, thank you for everything you've done. Really, _thank you_. But maybe you need to leave now. Go cool off.'

The words needed to be said. Stark looked downright furious. Steve could see the tendrils of the strange, almost-lifelike flightsuit beginning to roll up Stark's neck again, coming up above the line of his shirt.

'Stark? Are you okay?'

But it was Peter's voice that answered, calling from inside. 'Steve! _STEVE!'_

It was the sort of call you didn't ignore, no matter what the circumstances. Steve raced back into the room, Stark hot on his heels.

Peter was a good five feet up the side of the wall, holding on with nothing but the tips of his fingers, and the bare soles of his feet.

Not only had Mr Stark cured him, he had given him _superpowers_.

This was the best day of Peter's life.

'I thought,' the Captain said, his jaw as tight as Tony had ever seen it, 'You said there weren't going to be any side effects.'

It was almost an hour after their last tête-à-tête in the hallway outside Peter's room. It had taken them that long to process what was happening, to coax Peter down off the wall, hear his story (' _I was just trying to look out the glass part of the door to see if you were coming back and my hand stuck, and then my other hand stuck, and then my feet stuck, so I tried climbing and I could'),_ and get down to the hospital's canteen, where Tony had brought Steve an extremely sub-par coffee the Captain hadn't even touched. Tony sipped his and couldn't blame him.

'To be fair, Cap,' he replied, setting the cup down, 'It hardly counts as a side effect when he's fine. Better than fine. We both saw him, he's absolutely delighted.'

'For now.'

'What is that supposed to mean?'

'You didn't see this coming. Who's to say there won't be other unforeseen side effects down the line?'

'Better than dead.'

For a moment there was silence. Steve sighed, conceding the point, and Tony risked a smile. It was a mistake. His grin was met only with a stony glare.

'How did this even happen?' Steve demanded. 'What sort of side effect makes you stick to walls?'

Tony shrugged. 'The kind that comes when you have spider DNA, I guess.'

' _What_?!'

'Oh, calm down sweetheart, before you wrinkle that pretty face,' Tony tried to smile winningly, but it went down even worse than the first one. Steve sat back, folding his arms. 'It's not as dramatic as you think. One of my... colleagues has been researching animal survival traits. Lizards regrowing limbs, spiders sensing danger, that kind of thing. Seeing if it could be used for human enhancement was the idea, although, of course, he was too dumb to get it off the ground. But using a little dash of my dad's vitaray stuff and the genius of yours truly...' He waved a hand to indicate it was no big deal. 'Think of it as the same as what was done to you, only... themed.'

Steve no longer looked angry, but there was still a troubled crease of worry between his eyebrows. It was sort of cute. Tony resisted the surprisingly tender urge to kiss it smooth. Despite what Steve had said about sex being off the cards, Tony felt it was definitely still on the table. Possibly _this_ table in the next few minutes, if the Captain would just stop worrying about a few little changes in behaviour.

'Is it just the wall-climbing thing? Or will he have other powers?'

'I saw the same things you did, Cap. If you want me to work that out, I'll need to run some tests.'

'Since you injected him, the doctors have run every test going. They haven't found anything yet.'

Tony snorted. As if that meant anything. But he didn't want to make Steve worry more, so instead he said 'As if they know what they're looking for. Look, just leave it to me, I'll work this out.'

Steve looked at him, suspicious. He was looking distinctly scruffy, and it had tipped past the point of being sexily dishevelled and into the point of just being, well, scruffy. His hair was tousled and unwashed, and his clothes had pretty much gone past the point of no return in terms of creases. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he needed some taking care of.

 _I'll take care of him,_ a voice in his head seemed to snicker, _Right here, right now. He's delayed long enough_. _It's past time he paid his bill_.

'Of course,' Tony continued, 'You know what helps the brain work faster? Exercise. And you look like you could use a break. You know what's both physically exerting and mentally refreshing?'

'Tennis?'

Tony stopped. He hadn't actually expected an answer, and certainly not an answer like that, but he recovered quickly.

'Well, if that's what you want to call it.'

'You are so like your father,' Steve remarked, which killed Tony's libido in a single stroke. Even his flight suit seemed to tense in disgust.

'What? No I'm not. How?'

'He used to flirt like that with any girl that came within a fifteen foot radius.'

On the one hand, Tony knew this conversation was important. It was the first time Steve had ever talked to him about _before_ , about his time as Captain America. But on the other hand, he was _nothing_ like his asshole of a father, and this was doing _nothing_ to progress the conversation towards the point where the Captain was no longer wearing clothes. But that was a lost cause, for the moment. There was nothing less sexy than being reminded that his dad had existed.

'Come on,' he said, irritably, getting to his feet. 'Let's go make sure your kid isn't stuck to the ceiling or something.'

The moment they rounded the corner onto the corridor that led to Peter's room, Steve started to run. He moved so fast, he was running before Tony had even processed what was wrong; which turned out to be that there were three bodies in the corridor. There were two nurses and a woman Tony recognised to be Doctor Moore, the lead on Peter's case. But she wasn't dead. Tony knew what dead looked like, and a quick feel of her neck confirmed she was only unconscious. He could smell it now, the traces of chemical lingering in the air, some sort of knock out gas that the military probably would have been very interested in once, long ago.

Steve had hurtled through the door to Peter's room without looking around, but now he was coming back, marching purposefully towards him. Tony straightened up.

'He's gone,' Steve said, not stopping. 'He's gone.' He slammed something into Tony's chest, and kept walking. Tony looked down at the piece of card in his hands. It was small, and stiff, a typical business card but for the handwritten note on it.

 _STARK-_

 _I AM RECLAIMING MY PROPERTY_.

Tony turned the card over, not because he needed confirmation, but because his hands needed something to do. Sure enough, on the other side, looking innocently up at him, was the Oscorp logo. Instead of a name and a telephone number, though, there was nothing else but a small insignia, a picture of a demoniacally-twisted face, like some sort of Halloween mask, or a goblin straight out of Christina Rossetti. Tony had no idea what it meant, but it had to be Osborn.

'Cap, I know who this is, okay?' He hurried to catch up with Steve's purposeful march. 'We'll get him back, I swear.' They were out of the hospital now, striding across the car park. Steve nodded.

'Get your suit and meet me at Shield,' he said.

'Shield? Why?'

'You're getting your suit. I'm getting mine.'


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as he was back in uniform, Steve felt better. They'd given him the access code to the chest soon after he had woken up, telling him all his personal effects that had come out of the ice with him were inside there, but as Steve knew that would only mean the uniform, the shield and his dog tags he had never opened it. Captain America had been a symbol of a different place, a different time, that had been lost to him forever. Steve had never planned to put it back on, and had felt far happier in the uniform of a standard Shield Agent, not standing out, just one of the team, no different to anyone else.

But now, he wanted to stand out. He wanted Osborn to know exactly who he had crossed and what he was facing. Most importantly, Steve wanted the shield. It was sitting in the bottom of the chest, shining as if it had been lovingly polished just hours before, waiting for him to pick it up.

Steve had taken his time getting dressed, trying to focus his racing thoughts and ragged breathing. The uniform had been cleaned, laundered and probably repaired. There was a cowl in there too, though he knew it couldn't be the original. As he put the clothes on, it helped him compartmentalise what was happening. There was less Steve Rogers, whose son had been kidnapped, and more Captain America, off on a mission to save innocents. It made things, if not easier, more bearable. He glanced at the shield again. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he noted that this was it. With phones and cameras and social media these days, it was bound to get out that Captain America – or at least someone dressed as him – was back. It was the end of his new, normal, life and the end of his anonymity.

It didn't matter. _Peter_ mattered. Steve picked up the shield and slid it into place on his arm. Good.

He had wondered whether Stark would really meet him at Shield, given that the man was one of their most wanted, but as he exited he found him already waiting outside, surrounded by a dozen unconscious agents and looking extremely nonchalant, as far as it was possible for a suit of armour to look nonchalant. As soon as he saw Steve, he started talking.

'Osborn has a dozen bases around the city and about a hundred that I know about around the world, but I don't think we need to worry about most of them. Given his note and his charming personality, I think the most likely bet is that he's taken Peter to where I stole the research, which just so happens to be his nearest stronghold to the hospital. I've got the computer calculating the probability and strategic benefits of each of the other locations in case, but I think we need to start there.'

Steve nodded. 'Quickest route?'

'I fly, you hold on,' Stark said, coming up behind him and without further ado wrapping his arms around Steve's waist. 'Damn,' he said, 'Did the serum grow everything but your hips? How do you not snap in two? You're shaped like an equilateral triangle, like, 45 degrees all over, I'm serious. The uniform suits you, by the way. Welcome back.'

' _Stark_.' Steve snapped. He didn't have time for this. ' _Move_.'

'Okay, hold on.'

And they rocketed up at speeds Steve wouldn't have thought possible. He knew he was putting an awful lot of trust in someone who probably wouldn't hesitate to drop him if things didn't go his way. But until Peter was safe, it was a risk he would have to take.

Yet, there was something else, too. Steve always felt like he was dealing with two sides to Stark, almost two different people. How could someone who killed without mercy for petty misdemeanours be so gentle, kind and patient with Peter? Save him without being asked, and then seem to expect sexual favours in return?

Of course, Steve wasn't stupid. He knew people were complex, often contradictory, and people as clever as Stark probably even more so. But still, there was something. He kept thinking of the brief flicker he had seen in Stark's eyes in the bar, and the way his flight suit had rippled and clawed up his neck and over his hands like tentacles. It had almost seemed alive.

'Stark,' he called, over the rushing wind. 'Tell me about your flight suit.'

'Well Cap, it clings in _all_ the right places-'

'Stark. I need to know what – who – I'm working with. For Peter.'

There was no reply for a minute, and then, 'I don't want to answer that question, Cap.'

'I need-'

'But I _will_ , if you answer one first.'

'Fine.' Steve sighed. 'I didn't want to be Captain America again because-'

'Not that one. Tell me why you don't let Peter call you dad.' When Steve didn't reply, Stark kept prompting. 'I mean, you've raised him since he was a baby. You're all he remembers. And you love him like a real father would. More than some real fathers would.' There was a note of bitterness in his voice. 'So why don't you let him call you dad?'

That was a difficult question and not one Steve wanted to answer. Not one he was even sure he could answer. But if he was going to save Peter, he needed to understand all the variables, and that included finding out exactly what Stark's 'flight suit' was.

'Because I'm not his dad.' Stark scoffed at that, but Steve spoke over him. 'I mean, he _had_ a dad. A dad who loved him and meant the world to me. The first friend I had here. I don't want to just act like he was never here.'

'But-'

'Anyway, it isn't really my choice. I'm not going to make Peter call me anything he doesn't want to,' Steve concluded.

'You make him call you 'Steve'.'

'You got your answer. Tell me what that thing is.'

'Too late, we're here. That's the roof. Ready?'

'Stark, wait, we need a plan-'

Too late. Stark's arms were already gone from around his waist, and he was rolling across the roof of a nondescript building belonging to Norman Osborn.

Since the death of the Parkers, Natasha Romanov had become Shield's unofficial _Captain America Expert._ Which was a joke, because they had only worked together a handful of times and she barely knew him; the guy was so far in his shell that no amount of pecking was ever going to get him out. And she herself was hardly known for her openness and ability to make friends. In any case, she had the pleasure of being the one asked to report to Fury when Cap finally took up the shield again, before going out to join Iron Man, who had just disabled a whole team of agents in a matter of seconds, and flying away unchallenged.

Fury, understandably, was not happy.

'Romanov, what the hell is going on?' He asked. 'I thought you said he was done with Stark. I thought he understood.'

'That's the impression he gave me, sir.'

'Well, given that _Captain America_ has just taken to the streets with a vigilante and murderer, I'd say your impression was wrong!'

'He wasn't interested in Stark, sir. Everything he did before was for Peter's sake.'

'The Parkers' son? The one that's dying?'

'Yes sir.'

Fury looked to the ceiling, considering this. 'You think Stark's using the kid to get to him?'

'There's no evidence at this point, but it's possible.'

'Fine. Other possibilities?'

'That Captain America has been compromised. We knew from the very first psych profile Dr Parker did that it was a possibility. If he became disillusioned with the world as it is now he may become hostile. Especially with the added strain of Peter's condition.'

Fury nodded. 'Well then, Widow, get me some evidence. Find out what Stark has to do with this. And someone get me a status update on Peter Parker!'

Peter was pretending to be asleep, but only because he didn't have a plan right now. It seemed like a good idea to pretend to be asleep until he did. And to make a plan, you needed two things: goals, and facts.

The goal was pretty obvious, to get out of here and beat the bad guy.

And these were the facts:

Someone had kidnapped him from the hospital, someone who was interested in his new powers. Peter hadn't really got a good look at him before he passed out from the gas, he'd just seen some weird face like a Halloween mask. It probably was a mask, to hide his attacker's identity.

Mr Stark and his dad had both been at the hospital, and would know what had happened by now. Which meant that Iron Man was probably already on his way, and his dad was strong too. This guy wouldn't stand a chance. But it might take them a while to find him.

Only Peter wasn't helpless. He was really smart, and, thanks to Mr Stark, now he had awesome powers. Okay, so he hadn't really had time to try them out yet, but he could definitely climb walls and move really fast. That had to be helpful, right?

So his goal was to win, and his assets were that he had powers and help was on the way. So all Peter had to do was hold Mr Halloween Mask off until Iron Man arrived. Cautiously, he opened one eye just the tiniest crack, peering out between his eyelids.

He wasn't in a jail cell or a lab or even tied up or anything. In fact, he was lying on a couch made out of some super fancy material that was thick like a really furry dog, and coloured a deep red. He'd rolled onto his side, and all he could see was the back of the couch. It was kind of a nice couch, way nicer than the one he and his dad had at home. Maybe Mr Halloween was rich. However nice it was, though, it didn't stop the scary, tingling feeling in his stomach that something bad was about to happen. Peter opened his eyes all the way, and moved his head as slowly as he could.

The ceiling didn't tell him much. It was pretty low, and wood panelled, like in old museums. Over the back of the couch, he could see bookcases.

'Hello, Peter. Are you awake?'

Peter slammed his eyes shut. He'd moved too much, given himself away. He tried to keep his breathing deep and even, but it didn't work.

'Peter,' the voice said again. 'I know you're awake. Time to get up. Do you want some juice?'

Cautiously, Peter twisted round and sat up. The room turned out to be some kind of library, with tons of books and some little tables. There was a man sitting in front of him in a comfy old arm chair, the kind with a really high back, and the man didn't look scary at all, in fact he was smiling kindly and pouring juice into a glass for Peter, the kind with a swirly straw all the way around the outside. Maybe he had been kidnapped too. Peter still felt like something bad was about to happen.

'There you go,' the man said, pushing the glass towards him. 'Do you need any help?'

'No,' Peter said, taking the cup and drinking from it. He didn't spill any, either. He wasn't a baby. 'Who are you?'

'My name's Mr Osborn. I run a big company called Oscorp.'

Peter's eyes widened. 'I heard of you!' He blurted out, and slopped juice over his front. 'You're a scientist!'

'That's right.'

'Only Mr Stark says you're a hack,' Peter continued, because Mr Stark _had_ said it, when he had been texting Peter about brain chemistry. Then Peter realised he maybe shouldn't have said that, because it probably wasn't very nice to tell someone someone else had called them a hack. Mr Osborn just looked like Peter had told a great joke.

'He did, did he?' He asked, and laughed. Peter didn't like that laugh. His stomach was tingling worse than ever now. He put the rest of the juice back on the table. 'Well, Peter, you shouldn't listen to everything Mr Stark says. He's a killer.'

'He's a hero! He only kills the bad guys!'

'Really? The other day he killed someone just for playing music while he was on a date with your godfather.'

'That's not true,' Peter said, but he wasn't sure. Mr Stark really didn't like music.

'I'm sorry, Peter,' Mr Osborn said, and he shook his head like he really was sad. 'I know Mr Stark helped you. But he just isn't what you think.'

'He is! And he'll come save me and get you!'

'Get me?'

'You kidnapped me,' Peter said, a little uncertainly. Maybe Mr Osborn really had been kidnapped too, and they were both trapped.

'Peter, I rescued you.' Mr Osborn leaned forward in his chair. 'Listen, I have a son about your age. Harry. I love him so much. But sometimes, he doesn't think I know what's best, and we fight. And when that happens, it doesn't look like I love him, but I do.'

'So?'

'So, sometimes it can happen the other way round, too. It can look like someone is doing something good when really it's something bad. The medicine Mr Stark injected you with is really dangerous. Why don't you let me show you?'

Peter remembered his dad asking Mr Stark about _side effects_ , and how Mr Stark wouldn't let any other kids have the medicine. He looked at Mr Osborn's outstretched hand. The moment seemed to go on forever.

'You like science, right Peter?'

Peter nodded.

'Well then, let me show you my research and you can decide for yourself if this was bad, or good.'

Hesitantly, Peter reached out and took his hand. Immediately the feeling of the _Bad Thing_ got so bad it was like it exploded out of his stomach and had made an alarm go off in his head, and Peter tried to pull away, but Mr Osborn didn't let him, holding him tight and pulling him from the room. And Peter knew he had been really stupid, because obviously Mr Osborn had been the guy in the goblin mask, and now he had Peter captured and was pulling him from the room, and there was nothing at all Peter could do about it.

He should have just trusted Mr Stark. He'd been really dumb.

Except he wasn't really thinking about Mr Stark, or only a little bit. There was only one person he really wanted to see right now. He wanted his dad.

It was like art, watching Steve work.

Tony had seen old newsreels, of course. But the thing about those was, they were all staged. Of course they hadn't had the cameras out on the actual battle fields as Cap led the Commandos to attack Hydra. They'd just re-enacted those bits later on. Cap had always seemed a little embarrassed in the fight scenes, and had been holding back, going through the motions and trying not to hurt the extras playing Nazis. This was completely different.

Cap moved like a dancer, making impossible turns, twists and jumps, knocking out one guy after another with perfect smoothness, like the whole thing was some ballet. Every so often his shield would soar away from the scene, flying away in a way that defied physics, and always coming back to find Steve waiting, no matter where it had started.

He should probably help, Tony realised. But there really was something beautiful about watching Steve fight off assault after assault.

The alarms had gone off the moment Steve had touched the roof, and within seconds hoards of hired goons had poured out. The security had been increased considerably since Tony had last visited, which was a good sign that Peter was here. He fired off a couple of blasts, taking out two more guards.

'How many are there?' Cap called, taking out six with one neat swing of his shield. _Six_. The man was incredible.

'Uh, plenty.' Tony called back. The flow coming from the stairs seemed unending. But this was good. If they got rid of everyone here, the rest of the facility would be unguarded. Only Cap was shaking his head. He didn't seem to agree.

'We don't have time for this! Peter could be...' He trailed off, unable to finish. 'We need to get in there!'

'Okay,' Tony said, landing beside him. 'Clearing a path, got it.' He raised his hands in front of him, the repulsors whirring as they began to power up.

'Stark,' Steve said urgently behind him. 'They're just hired goons. Try not to kill anyone!'

So Tony let the blast go earlier than he normally would, sending a swathe through the guards, knocking all who were in its way to the side, off their feet, and definitely out. But the gap was already starting to close.

'Follow me,' Steve said, and, holding his shield up in front of him, barrelled through, knocking anyone foolish enough to approach away like skittles. Tony followed, awestruck, firing off the odd blast here and there where the enemy tried to close in behind. It was sort of fun, this hero thing.

 _We aren't here to have fun,_ Tony reminded himself and his companion. _We're here to save Peter. The kid could be hurt, and it's all our fault._

 _It's not,_ another part of him protested. _We saved the kid once already. His dad should be even more grateful if we do it twice. And if he isn't..._

Tony looked at the bowed neck in front of him, one thin sliver of skin showing between the cowl and the collar of the uniform. It was thin, but not so thin a tendril of his flight suit couldn't reach out, wrap around it and pull back, pull back until even that big strong neck snapped, squeeze and twist the life away -

Horrified, Tony almost tripped over his own feet. He'd been thinking about killing the Captain, visualising it in detail.

 _That isn't the plan_. He told himself firmly. _It's sex or nothing._

 _He'll be nothing_. _There'll be nothing left. Let's crush him for his insolence, his assumptions -_ Tony could almost hear the awful snap. He shook his head, vigorously, and pushed the thoughts aside. They were through the door, inside the building, running blindly down a set of stairs and into a corridor, filled with doors leading to unknown rooms. He had to save the bloodlust for later, save it for Osborn. Right now he had to focus on Peter.

 _Peter. Peter. Peter. Peter._

'No!' Peter shouted, as he struggled. Mr Osborn was much bigger than him, but he was struggling to hold onto Peter's arm, and Peter was nearly free -

'Hold still, you little brat,' Mr Osborn hissed at him. 'I tried to play nice, I tried to be your friend, but you just had to be silly, and now-' Suddenly, his arm was around Peter's neck, hooked under his chin, lifting him off the ground. Peter couldn't breathe properly, but he was used to that, and he kicked as hard as he could. Mr Osborn cursed but didn't let go, and kept dragging Peter down the carpeted hallway, eventually pushing him through a doorway near the end. He was about to pull it shut when a small voice said, 'Dad? What's wrong?'

'I thought I told you to study, Harry!'

'Daddy, what are you doing? Who's that?'

'My name's Peter!' Peter yelled out, because a hero always tried their best to save everyone, even when they were scared. 'He gassed everyone and kidnapped me! It's dangerous so you have to run!' He didn't say anymore, because Mr Osborn had slammed a hand over his mouth and pushed him further through the door.

'Go to your room, Harry.'

'But-'

'Now!'

Mr Osborn pushed Peter so hard that Peter fell to the floor, and Mr Osborn slammed the door shut behind them, locking it. Peter sat up, feeling a little dazed. He'd landed on his shoulder and now it hurt, and he didn't understand this room. It had one long bench running down the middle, and lots of science stuff around the walls, a computer in the corner. It was definitely a lab, but from what Peter had seen they were in a super fancy house or a hotel, and on an upper floor. Who put a lab at the top of their house?

'I love what you've done with the place,' Peter said, like they did on TV. Mr Osborn kicked him in the stomach and Peter fell down again.

'Get up,' he said. 'Show me your powers. How did he get it to work on you? How? I've been trying for years and none of my subjects ever survived!'

 _Survived_. Peter's tummy, which was still tingly, now felt all queasy as well. People had died here.

'I'm not telling you anything!' He roared. Mr Osborn growled in frustration and went to stamp on him like a bug, but Peter rolled out of the way. And even though his stomach hurt and his shoulder hurt and he felt sick, Peter got to his feet and was running for the door before Mr Osborn even turned around. He grabbed the handle and wrenched as hard as he could, and the door _was_ moving, he could feel it straining – but Mr Osborn came up behind him and pulled him away, lifting him off his feet. For a moment Peter wasn't sure what was happening, the whole world turned around him, and then Mr Osborn dropped him hard onto the table, pinning him down, and pressing a mask over his face. It was like the one Peter used to have to give him oxygen, but Peter knew it wasn't oxygen this time, and alarms were going off in his head and his stomach and all down his arms, and he kicked and kicked, but Mr Osborn was on top of him now, using his whole body to pin him down, and so Peter held his breath, and he could hold his breath for ages now, but then Mr Osborn elbowed him in the stomach and he breathed in and he knew that was it. His eyes felt heavy. He didn't want to sleep, but he couldn't help it.

But maybe it had been long enough. Dragging his eyes open, Peter peered towards the door. Any second now, his dad and Iron Man would come bursting in to rescue him. Any second now. Any second...

'He isn't here.'

'I know, Cap.'

'He isn't here! You said he would be here!'

'Look, just calm down, deep breaths. Jarvis has already-'

'We cleared out the whole place! Do you know how much time we've wasted?! What they could have done to him?!'

'Are you going to waste more by yelling?'

'...Fine. Where to?'

This wasn't fun any more. They'd searched the entire building, and the Captain hadn't let him kill anybody. They hadn't found Peter, and now the Captain was yelling.

Tony could pin him to the wall right there and then, get what he wanted, and never see him again. He could take him and then crush his skull and watch him die. He could be on his way in ten minutes, back to his normal life.

 _No._ He didn't want that. When had killing people become so normal anyway? He'd been disgusted by the use of his weapons in Afghanistan. He'd made up his mind to change. Tony didn't think he'd planned to change like this. Steve needed his help. _Peter_ needed his help. What the hell was wrong with him? Okay, so he'd chosen to live life by his own rules, but had he given up every shred of human decency?

His flight suit was starting to feel tight, restrictive. For the first time since they had joined, Tony wondered if he should take it off for a bit.

'Stark? Everything okay? We need to move on.'

'Right,' Tony blinked, pulling himself back to the task at hand. He couldn't take the flight suit off, not while he still needed the armour. On the inside of his visor, what remained of Jarvis had listed the next most likely location from the various factors of probability Tony had given him. The computer hadn't said anything. It rarely did now, other than affirmations that his command had been accepted. He really ought to reactivate the AI function, Tony thought, because it had been a good piece of work. A masterpiece of coding, really, and a hugely advanced piece of software, and, now that he thought about it, his friend. It had seemed like a necessary sacrifice at the time, in order to reassert control, to stop Jarvis from _talking,_ but now-

'Stark! Where to?'

Startled, Tony finally took in what he was reading. 'Next most likely location is Osborn's house.'

Steve frowned. 'Really? Do people often use their homes for villainous kidnappings?'

Tony considered. 'Maybe, when they need the kidnapee to understand why their mostly-illegal experiments actually worked.'

'Their _what_?'

Oops.

'Move,' Steve said, and what little of his face could be seen was white. 'Get us there. Now.'

Tony nodded and they started to head for the doors, but then, Tony's screen blacked out. The suit whirred, powering down, and fell off him in segments, even as he made to grab at it. He pulled the helmet off himself, trying to see what was happening. What he saw was one of the guards, one of the hundred they had knocked out that day, obviously concious, standing at one of the computer terminals, looking very pleased with himself.

'Mr Osborn was very clear of what we needed to do if ever this building was uncovered,' he said. 'Destroy everything. So we have EMPs planted everywhere. Getting rid of your little suit too, that's just a bonus.'

He smirked, and that smirk was the last thing Tony would remember clearly for some time.

Steve had just readied his shield, prepared to take the man down, but Tony got there first. From the middle of his flight suit, a thin, whip-like tentacle suddenly shot out, moving so fast it crackled like electricity, and with one quick jerk snapped the man's neck. Steve looked down at the body. There was nothing he could do.

'Come on,' Stark said, and he was smiling. 'I'm good. Who needs armour anyway, right?'

'I thought you did.'

'Oh, trust me, blue-eyes, I can do _plenty_ on my own. But let's go get Peter first.'

With that, he left. Steve followed. It wasn't what he wanted, but he wasn't going to lose sleep over anyone who got between him and his little boy. And when he found Osborn, well, he might just finish him himself.

Stark was the bigger problem right now. Not only did he apparently not care about his precious armour, which he had left discarded behind him, he had seemed practically gleeful about killing the guard. Steve was reminded, again, just what sort of person he was working with.

Yet, he had a hunch, a gut instinct that maybe this wasn't the sort of person Stark really was, that the other man wasn't in his right mind. That 'flight suit' moved like a living thing, and it was spreading even as he watched, so that Stark was completely encased up to his chin.

'You were going to tell me about your flight suit,' he prompted carefully.

'Yeah, no, I wasn't.'

'I answered your question, now you need to answer mine. What is that?'

'Cap, I'm not talking about that. We can focus on rescuing Peter, or you can keep pushing and see where it gets you.' Stark had stopped as he spoke, turned round to face him, and Steve didn't like the glint in his eye.

'Peter.' He said.

'Good,' Stark said, and went back to leading the way.

In the end, the fight was over in seconds.

Getting to Osborn's house took a while, longer than Steve wanted, but with the armour gone they had to 'borrow' a car, and no matter how recklessly you were willing to drive navigating city traffic was always going to slow you down. Then, once they arrived at the house, they had to scale the fence; easy enough for Steve, but Stark had been on another level, practically leaping over it, and as he passed Steve had seen his eyes, and there wasn't much sense left in them. He had really started to worry, then, but his priority was, as always, Peter.

After the fence, there were guard dogs with two handlers. Stark had laughed at how 'old school' it was, talked at length about his own, high-tech security, and they had batted the dogs aside. One of the handlers went down almost immediately but the other ran, and Steve managed to stop her just before she called the house to warn them. They'd reached the front door.

It was, of course, locked. Steve had been about to put a shoulder to it, but Stark had laughed again, the fingers of his suit stretching out long and impossibly thin, splitting into branch after branch, working their way into the crack around the frame. Then he pulled, and just like that it came away, no more difficult than taking the lid off a piece of tupperware. Stark threw the door into the grounds and crashed his way into the house.

The tendrils that had grown out of his suit to fit around the door did not retreat, but remained, streaming around Stark like tattered clothes. If anything, they were growing thicker, and stronger. There were more of them too, not just from his fingers, but everywhere, a seething, roiling mass of black. Stark took up most of the hall now, knocking over vases and ornaments, bumping off doorframes, and it was all Steve could do to follow along in his wake.

'What are you doing?' He yelled. 'We need to search, not just run blindly!'

'He's upstairs, I can _smell_ it,' Stark grinned over his shoulder, and on that disturbing note they found the staircase and barrelled up it, to another long landing. Steve thought he saw a door hastily click shut, and headed towards it, but Stark ignored it, going straight for the door at the end and _through_ , as if it wasn't even there.

Steve was a second behind him, but one of the tentacles already had Osborn pinned to the wall by his throat. Peter was strapped to a table in the centre of the room. The adult-sized restraints had obviously been too big, so he was bound with straps, wound into the restraints built into the table. From one of his arms, a slow drip of blood flowed down a tube, collecting in a flask at the bottom.

Steve saw red. He turned, marching towards where Stark held Osborn. Obviously Stark wasn't holding tightly enough, because the bastard still had enough air to speak.

'This is a new look for you, Stark,' he said. 'Looks biological to me. I knew you weren't out of the weapons game just because your company is gone. Human enhancement. Imagine the beautiful destruction you could cause. A kingdom of ash to be _ruled._ ' He giggled wheezily, and Steve suddenly realised that Osborn was insane.'I just wanted to see how it was done, how you'd done it. It was _my_ work, Stark, it was _mine_ , it should have been _me_ , it should have been me when we were at school, it should have been _me_ that got the enhancements working, it-'

'You're right,' Stark interrupted him. 'It should have been you at school.'

And he stabbed him, one of the tentacles boring like a drill right through him, then coming back out with a sickening squelch. Blood and viscera fell to the floor. Osborn fell with it.

'Bastard,' Stark said. He looked at Steve, who was standing still, guarded. 'He killed my favourite teacher. Practically.' He sounded almost defensive.

 _Peter_. Steve ran to the table, removed the tube, and set about undoing the straps. A moment later, Stark came and began bandaging Peter's wrist, impossibly gently. The extra tentacles had gone now, and somehow, there wasn't a spot of blood on him.

Steve lifted Peter up, pressing him against his shoulder. He could feel Peter's breath, deep and steady, against his cheek.

'Let's go,' he said.

Before they even reached the staircase, Peter was stirring. Steve drew to a halt.

'Hey buddy,' he said. 'Are you okay?'

Peter nodded. His face was turned to the side, nestled against Steve's chest, so he saw Stark first, and smiled.

'Knew you'd come,' he mumbled, then looked up at the person carrying him. He looked tired, and confused.

'Peter?'

'You're Captain America,' he said sleepily, fighting to keep his eyes open as he cuddled nearer. 'I saw you on TV. But you died ages ago.' His words were barely audible.

And then Steve realised he was still wearing the cowl, and most of his face was covered. He pulled it off.

'It's me,' he said. 'Just me.'

'...Daddy?'

Steve found there was a hard lump in his throat. 'Yeah,' he said, swallowing. 'I'm here.'

They continued down the staircase. Steve went slowly, his attention on the sleeping boy in his arms. Stark matched his pace, saying nothing, his eyes distant and far away. The flight suit was finally still. Content, perhaps; for now.

They made their way across the front entrance hall and out of the hole where the front door used to be, right into the middle of a ring of black-clad agents, each and every one of them pointing a gun at them. Steve tensed, then relaxed as he recognised the Shield uniform. They must have heard about Osborn, come to help.

But none of them were lowering their guns. Beside him, he heard a slithering sound, and realised the tentacles were coiling out from Stark's flight suit again, tensed and ready to strike. Now a voice called out to them over the assembled crowd.

'This is Director Fury of Shield,' he said. 'We just want to talk. Come quietly and no-one needs to get hurt.'

Steve was just about to reply when he heard more slithering next to him. He turned and saw Stark's flight suit was now in full flow, moving around and over him, like a snake coiling around prey. Stark made a little 'Oh' sound, and for a moment, Steve could see his eyes, full of fear and very, very human. Then his eyes were gone, swallowed up by the black tar that had climbed his neck, over the back of his head, up his chin, and was now oozing over his face, into his eyes and nose and mouth, until it consumed him completely.

'This,' Stark said, and his voice was no longer his own, an impossibly long, red tongue lolling out from between large, jagged jaws, 'Is going to be fun.'


	10. Chapter 10

Things happened very fast after Stark's transformation. He reached out, his arms impossibly long and tentacle-like, and snatched the two nearest Shield agents, lifting them off the floor by the throat. The rest of the agents immediately opened fire, and it was all Steve could do to make sure that his shield was covering both Peter and himself. The monster that had once been Stark merely laughed.

'Is that the best you got?' He laughed. 'Toys!' And one of the tentacles smashed through the ranks, sweeping them aside like a car crashing through a wheat field. He dropped the first two agents he had grabbed. They were both dead.

The commotion had woken up Peter, who was looking around in confusion, straining to see over the shield even as Steve tried to keep him behind it. The agents opened fire on the creature again as Steve tried to be heard over the noise.

'Peter! Peter, it's too dangerous, hold still!'

'What's happening? What's that thing?!'

Steve looked down at the child in his arms and knew there was no point in lying. 'It's a monster. It came out of Mr Stark's flight suit.'

Peter looked at the monster again, wide-eyed and scared. 'But we'll save him, right? I mean, you're...' He rubbed the sleeve of Steve's uniform, apparently in awe.

Steve's mouth suddenly dried out. Peter was right. This couldn't just be a matter of killing a monster or saving civilians. Stark had saved his son, and now that thing had taken him over. They had to get him back. He nodded, but just as he did so the monster let out a terrible, keening scream. Whatever Shield had just hit it with had finally had an impact, but it wasn't enough. There was an electric-like crackle and several agents dropped, hit with, Steve suspected, the same 'sting' that had once been used on Peter. The monster barrelled through them, looking back at Steve still standing by the doors to the mansion.

'Hey beautiful,' he called mockingly, 'Let's take this back to my place.'

With that, he was off, a seething mass again, a huge roiling mass of tentacles. Steve wasn't sure where they had all come from. Still, one thing was clear – The monster controlling Stark wanted him to follow. And maybe that meant it was a bad idea to follow, that it would turn out to be a trap or that the creature would try to kill him, but there was no way Steve was going to hang back. Not when that thing was going to be passing through a city of innocents.

He set Peter down on his feet, near the few remaining Shield Agents that had either recovered from the blow or had avoided it to begin with. 'Stay here,' he said.

Peter grabbed his hands as Steve went to let go. 'But-'

'Peter, I'm going to try and help Mr Stark, but I need you to stay here and stay safe.'

'But I have powers! I can help!'

'We don't understand your powers yet, and I don't have time to argue. You stay here.' Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out Peter's precious phone. He'd picked it up almost on reflex before they left the hospital room, and now returned it to its owner. 'You put your playlist on, okay? I'll be back soon.'

He ruffled Peter's hair, wanting to say more, but knowing there wasn't time. He would just have to make sure he came back. From somewhere down the hill, car alarms started to sound. Steve ran towards them, not looking back, because if he did, he might stop.

He'd just got Peter back, Peter was going to live, and they still hadn't had any time together. But this was just one last crisis, one more thing he had to do, and then they would have all the time in the world, years of it, an entire lifetime. And that was thanks to the man that monster had carried away with it. So Steve followed, running as fast as he could, determined he was going to find a way to stop this.

Peter watched him go. He was scared now, and his eyes were wet even though he didn't want them to be, because this was worse than when he had woken up in Mr Osborn's house and worse even then when he had thought he was going to die. Because now he was worried Mr Stark was going to die, or that _Steve_ was going to die.

He started crying, even though he knew he should be brave and strong, because he couldn't help it, because his dad was Captain America, and he'd saved Peter, and a monster had eaten Mr Stark, and Peter didn't really get what was happening, but it had all started because he was sick and Mr Stark had helped him and now it had all gone crazy and he _hated_ it.

'Peter. Go back inside.'

Peter looked up, blinking the tears away as much as he could, and saw the red-headed lady that had come to the house, the one that was Steve's friend from work.

'But...'

'Shield is going to help them,' the lady said, and Peter noticed she had a gun on her hip. 'But I need you to go inside with Agent Meason and wait.'

Peter was still looking at the gun. He didn't think it would be much help against the big black squirmy thing that had taken Mr Stark. The monster had just laughed off bullets before.

Still, this lady looked fierce like a lion, and she had already walked quickly away towards the other three agents that were the only ones still standing up, and a man had taken Peter's hand and led him back inside. In his other hand he held his own gun, up and ready.

'Did you see any guards here before?' Agent Meason said.

'N-no,' Peter said, trying to take deep breaths so the crying would stop. 'I-it was just me and Mr Osborn and Harry.'

'Harry?'

'Another boy. He was upstairs.'

Agent Meason nodded slowly. 'Okay. Peter, everyone else has gone to help your dad so I'm going to need to go check on that. I'm going to ask you to hide, okay? Just for a little bit while we make sure the house is safe, and then you can come out.' He cast around them, looking for somewhere for Peter to hide, and then gently nudged him into what Steve would call a broom cupboard but everyone else would probably just call a closet. 'I'll be right back,' he promised, and shut the door.

It was dark in the broom cupboard, and there wasn't much space. Peter sat huddled on the floor, under the coats and surrounded by shoes, his knees pulled up under his chin, wiping the last bits of his drippy nose on his jeans. He wasn't going to cry any more. His dad had saved him, and now he would save Mr Stark, and he would definitely come back.

The thought made Peter pause. Because his dad _had_ saved him, and so had Mr Stark. They had both saved him, and now they were both in trouble, and now Peter had to help them, even though everyone said no. After all, Peter had watched the Captain America documentary – the _Steve_ documentary – where it had said that all the army guys had said no to him, but he had wanted to help anyway. And now Peter had to do the same. Mr Stark was Iron Man, and now his dad was Captain America, and they helped people all the time. Well now Peter had to help them.

He wiped his nose one last time and then his eyes for good measure and stood up. He was done crying. It was time to get out of here.

Cautiously, he pushed the cupboard door open, peeping out into the entrance hall. Agent Meason wasn't back yet, so it was the perfect time to go. Without wasting another second, Peter ran to the front door – he could run now - and out. There were a lot of people covered in sheets, and a few doctors looking after those who were hurt, but the agent lady had gone and taken the others with her. No-one was looking at Peter or the house, but they probably would if he started running. He would have to sneak.

One of the cars that the monster had thrown had slid on its side right up against the front step and Peter scuttled behind it, peering round the edge to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn't. So far so good. But now came the tricky part, because the driveway was really long and there wasn't much to hide behind. He was just thinking that he would have to make a straight run for it after all when he realised that the fence came pretty close to the house, maybe like 10 feet. If he used his powers, climbed up on top of the car and along it, he could probably jump onto the top of the fence and climb over it before anyone noticed. He had powers now. He knew he could make it.

It was harder climbing up the car than it had been climbing the hospital wall. He was still a little scared, and the car wobbled, and the windows were all broken which meant he had less surface to use and there were shattered bits of glass all around. But just like his dad had always told him when he was sick and trying to do stuff, he just had to do one step at a time. Slowly, he inched his way on top of the car and balanced along the length of it. He wanted to stop when he got to the end and work out the right angle and force for his jump, but there was no time. He didn't want to be spotted, and his dad and Mr Stark needed his help now, so he didn't even stop to think before launching himself off the car and onto the fence.

He landed perfectly, right on the narrow top of it, exactly on the point he was looking at. _Because_ s _uperpowers._ He crawled easily down and got onto the road on the other side before setting off at a run towards where, in the distance, he could just see Mr Stark's tower dominating the skyline.

Despite his best efforts, Steve ground to a halt, panting. He was fast, but this creature was faster, and he just couldn't keep up.

Partly this was because while the monster that had been Stark simply barrelled through, tossing aside anything in his way, Steve had to dodge flying cars, collapsing walls, and any other debris. Of course, he also had to try and catch the cars, hold up the walls and get civilians safely away, which held him up further.

The worst part was, it was toying with him. With each delay he would slow down, stay a steady distance ahead, casually destroying whatever was around him while he waited for Steve to catch up. This was a game, it was all about getting Steve's attention. Steve couldn't risk denying him that, as he did not want to enrage him further. He took two deep breaths and started to run again.

'What is this about?' He shouted, trying to distract the creature. 'You want to talk to me? Turn round and talk!'

The monster did turn round then, laughing. 'I don't want to talk, sweetheart.' It's large pink tongue lolled greedily out of its mouth.

'Whatever you want,' Steve said, in the most authoritative voice he could, 'We aren't doing anything until you let Stark go.'

'I am Stark,' it said, 'And Stark is me. We are one.'

'You don't look like Stark.'

'I'm everything he's too scared to do! I am Venom!'

Steve almost felt like sighing. He started to walk forward. 'You know,' he said, conversationally, 'I feel like I'm always coming across monsters who claim to be the evil-inside-man. But I fought the Nazis. I've seen the evil in mankind, and it isn't you.'

'I'm gonna fuck you,' Venom said, not moving. 'Then I'm gonna kill you. Or maybe the other way around. You've never seen anything like me, Princess.'

'I've seen plenty like you,' Steve said, and threw the shield.

It was a stupid move. He'd seen bullets bounce off this thing; no matter how straight and true his aim was, Venom wasn't going to be hurt. And yet, he must have caught the thing off guard because the impact sent it flying, rolling over itself, the tentacled mass receding into something more man-shaped. Steve caught the shield as it came back to him, went to try for another hit, but before he could Venom was already back on his feet, snarling.

'I'll make you pay for that,' he said. 'Just for that, I'm going to make you beg and moan.'

With that, it was gone, powering away from him again. Steve gave chase unthinkingly, because there was nothing else he could do. He would follow this thing as far as he had to to find a way to stop it. He was going to take Venom down, and get Stark back.

The malicious playfulness seemed to be over with. Venom was smaller now, and no longer wreaking havoc for the sake of it. The goal now seemed to be getting to Stark Tower as quickly as possible, and Steve followed, weighing up his next steps. Venom must have a reason for wanting to go there, and probably had some sort of plan or trap in place. Perhaps, then, he should try to trigger the fight early – but at least in the tower it would be contained, restricted to just the two of them. Even if it was a trap, there was no question that he ought to accept the bigger risk himself in order to reduce it for civilians. So Steve hung back, let Venom make his way forward, trying to keep everyone else safe. They'd have this fight at the tower.

They were less than a block away, passing a coffee shop, when Venom suddenly veered off, a tentacle whipping out, smashing the glass, knocking aside tables and patrons, and sending what looked to be a supporting column crumbling before racing off much faster than before. It was to slow him down, Steve knew, but once again there was nothing he could do but play right into it. He ran inside, shouting at those customers not already moving to get out, racing to the column and doing his best to keep it upright. As soon as everyone was out, he dived out of the door, escaping just before the whole thing came crashing down.

He barely paused, rolling to his feet and carrying on chasing after Venom. The further he got ahead, the more of an advantage he would have.

Like everyone else that lived in the city, Steve had heard plenty of stories about Stark Tower. Chief among them was that nobody had been allowed inside since he had made it home from his kidnapping years before. Coming to it now, he could believe it. Although the door stood open, and Venom had clearly just gone in, the whole place had the eerie stillness of a ghost town.

There were no lights on as he crossed the marble floor of what must have been the lobby, back when the place was still used as Stark Industries headquarters with just a few residential floors on the top. As Steve passed through, peering through the glass partitions at the abandoned offices, he realised there was no dust. The whole place looked completely sterile, as if nobody had ever been there. The only sign of life in the whole place was the soft glow of light from the elevator shaft, showing that that, at least, was operational. The penthouse, then. Steve went and pressed the call button.

The elevator moved so quietly that Steve wasn't even sure it was moving until a moment later the doors opened and he stepped in. The doors slid shut, and Steve realised that there were no buttons. It was possible he had just walked right into Venom's trap, shut himself in a small steel box. He was about to try and force the doors when a polite, accented voice asked him 'Which floor?'

Suddenly Steve remembered some of the messages from Stark he'd read on Peter's phone, the ones that had described the computer system he had running his home. Clearly it even ran the elevators.

'Penthouse,' he said, wondering if he would be asked to provide some sort of access code. But perhaps the machine had been expected him, because he felt the slightest sense of movement that meant he was going up.

It felt like a very long ride, though it was probably only seconds. He positioned himself to the side of the door, shield up and ready, and as soon as they opened threw himself through, expecting attack at any moment.

Instead he saw Venom standing fairly calmly behind a breakfast bar, drinking whiskey from the bottle.

'What's this about?' Steve asked again.

Venom swallowed the last of it's drink, and the big tongue rolled out again, slathering around to collect the drops off his jaw.

'I'm here,' Steve said. 'You've got what you wanted. So how about you drop Stark and we get this sorted out?'

'Always the hero,' it said, and Steve hated its voice, so like Tony's, and yet so twisted and changed. And in that moment of distraction, a tentacle sprang across the room, took him up by the throat, and slammed him into the wall.

Steve smacked at it with the shield, but it didn't seem to make any difference, the thing only laughed, squeezed tighter.

'What, you aren't into this?' It asked, mockingly.

He was suffocating, Steve realised. The breath had been knocked out of him by the impact against the wall, and he couldn't get any more. His vision started to go black around the edges. He couldn't breathe.

He wondered if this was how Peter had felt every day.

It wasn't exactly hard to track them. Peter walked down the street, following the trail of people crying or screaming, smashed-up stuff and overturned cars. Before long he caught up with the handful of Shield agents that had made it from the house and was worried they would catch him, but they didn't even notice, too busy trying to stop everyone from panicking and running into each other. Everyone was talking about 'the monster', the sighting of someone in a Captain America outfit, but no-one seemed to know what to do.

Peter knew. He was going to help.

He made it all the way to the tower without anyone stopping him. He ran up the steps and tugged desperately on the door, sure his dad and Mr Stark had to be inside, but the doors were locked. Despite all his new strength, he couldn't make them budge even a little. Frustrated, he took a few steps back, craning his neck to try and see another way in. When Mr Stark had told him about the tower, he'd said he lived right at the top. Maybe he'd left a window open or something. But Peter couldn't even see the top floors, the tower was so tall. Not sure what else to do, Peter went back to the doors and wrenched as hard as he could.

'You are not authorised to enter,' the door said, politely. 'Please desist or action will be taken.'

Peter looked at the door. This must have been the program Mr Stark had told him about. 'Are you Jarvis?'

'I am the Jarvis system,' the voice agreed robotically.

'Please let me in. Steve and Mr Stark need my help.'

'You are not authorised to enter,' the voice repeated in exactly the same tone as before. 'Please step away before further action is taken.'

'I need to come in,' Peter insisted, tugging at the door again. The handles turned burning hot, making him yelp and jump back.

'You are not authorised to enter,' Jarvis said again, 'Please have a nice day.'

Peter scowled at the door, blowing on his hands to try and cool them down. Mr Stark had told him Jarvis was just a computer who did what it was programmed and didn't have any personality, but Peter still didn't like him. There had to be another way in.

Peter skulked away, ducking into an alley at the side of the tower, looking up at it doubtfully. It was still really, really tall, and he needed to be at the top of it.

Hesitating wasn't going to do any good. He kicked off his shoes so he could get a better grip, pressed his stinging hands against the wall and started to climb. The glass was smooth, and it made it harder for him to hold on, but he could do it. He was going to climb all the way to the top, find his dad, and get him to let him in through a window so they could save Mr Stark together.

He was about ten or fifteen feet up when Jarvis spoke to him again. 'You are intruding. Please desist or action will be taken.'

'Shut up,' said Peter, even though it was rude. This computer was very annoying.

'You are intruding,' Jarvis repeated. 'The wall will become electrified in 10... 9...'

'Electrified?!' Peter almost lost his grip. He had been climbing quickly, and now he was almost a whole storey up. Far enough that a fall would hurt, or worse.

'8... 7...'

'We're trying to help Mr Stark! Don't you understand?!'

'6...5...'

'He made you! Don't you want to help him too?!'

For a moment, Peter thought the countdown had stopped. The gap certainly seemed longer before the computerised voice said, '4... 3...'

'Please,' Peter said desperately, because he knew he couldn't get down in time and he was going to get shocked. 'This monster came out of his flight suit and swallowed him up, and it wants to kill my dad. Mr Stark likes my dad. It's not him. We have to _help._ '

'2...'

'Please...'

'1.'

Peter closed his eyes. Nothing happened. He peeped out between his lids, and, not sure what was happening, carried on scrambling up.

'Electrical failure,' Jarvis said, in its same neutral voice, empty of expression. Unable to believe his luck, Peter kept climbing. Every so often, Jarvis reminded him 'You are intruding,' but now that he didn't have anything to use as a threat, Peter didn't mind so much. It was a good distraction from how high he was.

His fingers and toes were starting to hurt from clinging on for so long. And it was windy, being up so high, so he was frozen. The glass wall, too, seemed to be made from sheer ice. Peter reached, lost his grip, and scrambled to try and get it back.

'The glass will now be electrified,' Jarvis announced, and Peter yelped in fright, but there was no accompanying shock. All that happened was that the glass around him heated up slightly.

'Electricity 11% functionality,' Jarvis told no-one in particular. Peter carried on climbing, hoping to get to the top before his luck ran out. He was nearly there.

He reached the top level of windows, but he couldn't see Steve or Mr Stark, just the dark inside of a bedroom. Worried, he turned slowly and followed the wall sideways until he saw the monster standing in Mr Stark's living room, like he didn't have a care in the world. Peter hit the glass angrily, but even the sound of it was carried away by the wind.

Just then the elevator doors opened and his dad came in and started talking.

'Steve!' Peter called. 'Steve!'

He needed to get inside, _now_.

'You are intruding in the vents,' Jarvis said.

'What? No I'm not.'

Next to Peter's elbow, a section of the glass suddenly popped open, revealing an air duct. Cautiously, Peter put his head in and looked inside.

'You are intruding in the vents,' Jarvis repeated.

'You're helping me!' Peter said. 'As much as you can while still doing what you're programmed to do, right?'

'You are intruding in the vents,' was all Jarvis said, once more. Peter ducked in and started to scramble through. It was dark in there, but he could see a strange light ahead, gold and blue in turn. He went towards it.

There, hidden in the vents, was a mass of wires and motherboards, covered in pulsing fibre optic cables.

'Jarvis?' Peter asked. This had to be the physical computer, right? It looked complicated enough.

'You are intruding,' Jarvis said, and everything lit up.

'Okay, I have an idea to help Mr Stark,' Peter said. 'Can you play some music?'

'Only Mr Stark is authorised to operate the sound system.'

'Oh, come on! It hates music!'

'Only Mr Stark is authorised to operate the sound system.'

'I know, but-!'

'Mr Stark's phone is detected.'

'What?' Peter suddenly understood. 'Oh! Yeah!' He pulled the phone, the phone Mr Stark had given to him, the phone that Mr Stark himself had owned, out of his pocket. After a few moments of searching, he found a port on Jarvis' hardware to plug it in, and quickly pulled up the Youtube playlist.

'Which song would you like?' Jarvis asked.

'The one that goes DA-DA-DEE-DA-DA-DA,' Peter said, singing in his most high pitched voice, trying to imitate the song he wanted. If anything on the playlist would hurt a monster, it would be that one. Unfortunately he had never really been able to hear what the words were.

'Song unknown.'

'No,' Peter moaned. 'Come on, it goes DO-LA-DA-DA-DA, DA-DA-DEE-DA-DA-DA, it has guitars and-'

The song, the exact song started playing at a volume so high the vent was shaking. Peter cheered and went to look for a way out into the room. He'd like to see any monster standing up to _that_.

 _CAN'T EXPLAIN ALL THE FEELINGS THAT YOU'RE MAKING ME FEEL!_

Steve was on the point of blacking out. He'd dropped the shield and was tugging at the tentacle with his bare hands, trying to pull it off, when the music started, so loud he flinched at the sound of it. _What the hell-_

 _MY HEART'S IN OVERDRIVE AND YOU'RE BEHIND THE STEERING WHEEL!_

Venom was coping with it much worse than he was. It screeched in displeasure, and some of the extra tentacles spread up to cover where it's ears should have been. It's grip slackened enough that Steve could take a deep breath, filling his lungs.

 _TOUCHING YOU, TOUCHING ME, TOUCHING YOU, YOU'RE TOUCHING ME!_

Steve knew what was coming and went limp, readying himself, because he was pretty sure Venom would be dropping him any second.

He was right.

 _I BELIEVE IN A THING CALLED LOVE, JUST LISTEN TO RHYTHM OF MY HEART!_

The words were so high pitched and so fast that Peter had never been able to work them out, no matter how many times they had the playlist on. He always sung along to it with dees and das, and it always made Steve laugh.

Venom, however, did not appreciate it. Screaming in earnest now, it staggered back, all the tentacles writhing. Steve snatched up his shield, ready to close in, but then something dropped in a blur from the ceiling, right onto the monster's back.

'Leave him _alone_!' The blur said, and Steve realised, _oh hell_ , it was Peter.

'Peter!' He said, racing forward, not even thinking about what he was going to do, so desperate was he to get Peter away, away from anything that could hurt him, he was on Venom's _back-_

 _I WANT TO KISS YOU EVERY MINUTE, EVERY HOUR, EVERY DAY!_

The chorus finished and the pitch decreased slightly, and Venom, enraged, became aware of Peter, throwing him aside as if the boy wasn't even there. Peter hit the bar, moaned, and lay still.

 _YOU'VE GOT ME IN A SPIN BUT EVERYTHING IS A-OKAY!_

'You hurt him,' Steve said. He didn't need to say anything else. He swung the shield as hard as he could, as hard as he ever had, and connected. The vibrations mixed in with the blaring music and the monster screamed, collapsing, trying to get away, but Steve wasn't going to let that happen.

 _TOUCHING YOU, TOUCHING ME, TOUCHING YOU, YOU'RE TOUCHING ME!_

Steve kept hitting. Between the shield and the music, the thing was receding, shrinking, Stark's hands and feet already visible.

 _I BELIEVE IN A THING CALLED LOVE, JUST LISTEN TO THE RHYTHM OF MY HEART!_

He could see Stark's face, pale, his eyes closed. The wriggling dark mass seemed to be trying to turn back into a flight suit again. Steve paused, not sure what else he could do without injuring Stark.

His concern might not have been necessary. He couldn't see any signs of breath. The only movement was the churning of the black tar that covered him.

'Stark?' His voice couldn't be heard over the music.

 _THERE'S A CHANCE WE COULD MAKE IT NOW, WE'LL BE ROCKING TIL THE SUN GOES DOWN!_

Suddenly, spotlights blazed into life, flicking on and off in a way that was going to give Steve a headache, let alone anyone else. He looked to the corner of the room, where Peter was pushing the switches on and off like a pro, his face serious, his temple bleeding from where he had hit the bar. The changing light levels seemed to be working too; the mass retreated further, until it was just a small squirming thing on Stark's stomach. Steve lifted his shield to deliver the final blow, but in the next instant of darkness as Peter turned out the lights, it leapt away, disappearing into the vent.

'No!' Peter said, sounding stricken, and started climbing up the wall, clearly intent on following until Steve grabbed him around the waist and pulled him down.

'No! Steve, we can't let it get away!'

'It's weak, Shield will get it. Don't worry.' Steve brushed his hair aside, trying to see the cut. Peter kept struggling.

'But what if it hurts someone?!'

'If you go in there, the only person it will hurt is you,' Steve said, reaching into his pocket and taking out his own phone. 'Call Shield, okay? Tell them you're my son and tell them what happened. They'll fix it.'

Peter took the phone, but still looked unsure. 'Shouldn't we... kill it?' He asked.

'We don't kill, Peter, that's what makes us the good guys.'

Peter nodded, white faced, and turned his attention to the phone, which was exactly what Steve wanted. The truth was, he would have killed Venom if he'd had the chance, and he wouldn't have had any regrets. But Venom wasn't a threat for this exact second at least, and although he wasn't sure about the wisdom of trusting them with whatever Venom was, Shield would at least be able to contain it in its current state. He could go and help them in a moment, and a moment was all Steve needed.

A little way away, Stark lay on the floor, wearing nothing but a plain cotton t-shirt and some boxers, looking somehow younger, or smaller, or in some way diminished. His skin was chalk-white, his hair mussed, his eyes closed.

From where Steve was, it didn't look like there were any signs of life. But the only way to find out was to go closer.


	11. Chapter 11

_...down and out, when you're on the street..._

Tony woke up slowly, to the sound of soft music. He knew this song. It was _Bridge Over Troubled Water_. Obviously, everyone knew this song, but it was a great song. He hadn't heard it for ages, years, and he suddenly wondered why. It was a classic song. It was calming, and sort of like a river in and of itself. He could so easily let himself drift away on it, back to sleep, but something in him said no.

He opened his eyes. He was lying on the longest couch in his lounge, and on the smaller one, a book in hand, was Steve. He noticed Tony was awake.

'Hi,' he said.

'Hi,' Tony croaked, and, slowly sat up. The movement made his head spin.

'Easy,' Steve said, getting up and coming to sit beside him. 'You okay?'

Tony considered this. He felt weird, lighter, somehow, but bereft. Unsure what to say, he hugged his arms over his chest and realised what he had subconsciously already known: that his flight suit was gone, that Venom was gone.

 _I'll take your part, when darkness comes..._

He found tears were in his eyes and blinked them away, embarrassed. ' ...'s a good song,' he sniffed, trying to cover.

'Yeah,' Steve agreed. 'Well, it is, until you've heard it a thousand times.'

'Huh?'

'It's Peter's playlist. The same thirty-four songs have been on a continous loop for the last two weeks, he insisted.'

'Two weeks?! I was out for two weeks?!'

'Easy,' Steve said, and apparently without thinking, rubbed Tony's back as if he was Peter. 'You've woken up a few times, but you weren't really making sense. You don't remember?'

Tony shook his head, feeling sick, but even as he did so vague, confused memories were coming back to him. Steve trying to explain where he was and what was happening. Tony demanding to have Venom back, screaming and crying, and behaving like a child having a tantrum. He closed his eyes. 'Shit,' he said.

'You'll be alright,' Steve said. 'The Shield medics said you just need to adjust. That thing was in your system for a long time. It could be a while before you're completely yourself again.'

 _Yourself_. The word sent Tony's pulse racing. He didn't know how to be himself, not on his own, not as a singular. He couldn't, he couldn't do this alone, he didn't know how to _be_ on his own, Venom had made his life ordered, controlled, without him it would all be chaos, he couldn't deal with that, he didn't know how to deal with that - But at the same time, the memories of the last few years were coming back. The paranoia, the hatred, the people he had killed, murdered on the slightest pretext. Pepper's face when he fired her. Jarvis' pleas, telling him the truth, telling him that he needed help, before Tony turned off everything that made him him. He'd used a dying child, used highly experimental, untested medicine on a child who was _four_ just to get to Steve, he'd planned to kill Steve, to do unspeakable things to him.

 _No, no, no-_

Steve hauled him upright, putting Tony's arm round his neck and holding him round the waist, moving fast. They made it to the bathroom just in time for Tony to puke like he hadn't since freshman year. Damn. So much for dignity. But the gentle, firm hand on the back of his neck, keeping him in position over the toilet, was sort of nice in a weird way. And at least Steve kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ceiling until it was all out and the two of them sat together on the bathroom floor.

'And this is why you're on the couch,' Steve said, smiling gently. 'Closer proximity when you wake up and that happens.'

Tony groaned. Then he knew it was time to ask the question he did not want to ask, but had to know.

'Okay, I'm lucid. What happened? Tell me all of it.'

'What's the last thing you remember?'

'Osborn's scientist. The EMP.'

Steve frowned. 'This can wait, Stark, you aren't well.'

'No. Tell me now.'

So Steve did, gently but factually, a soldier giving a report. How Tony had killed Osborn, attacked Shield, trashed the city to lure Steve here, and how they had eventually gotten Venom off him. Tony closed his eyes, trying to fight off the nausea, trying to ignore the prickling of his arms, objecting to being exposed to air for the first time in years.

'Your AI activated a defence mechanism that ejected what was left of Venom out of the vents and straight into Shield custody. They're studying it in the lab, but they'll probably want to talk to you eventually.' Steve hesitated, then continued, 'They've found enough to know that it would have been influencing, probably even making, your decisions for you. None of this was your fault, Stark.'

Tony couldn't answer that. 'And Peter's okay?' If Peter was hurt, he didn't know what he was going to do.

'Fine. He's been staying in a Shield safe house with Harry. He'll be glad to know you're awake.'

'Harry?'

For a moment, pity flickered over Steve's face. 'Osborn's son.'

Tony wished he hadn't asked, and closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. His guilt wouldn't bring back the dead.

'Wait,' he said, when he had mastered himself. 'Have you been here the whole time?'

'Shield assignment,' Steve said. 'They needed someone to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're alright. And... Captain America was seen on the streets of New York. I wanted to lie low a little.'

Tony nodded. So Steve was working, here to guard him. Of course it wouldn't be anything else. So there was only one more thing he needed to know, and he wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be.

'So...' He said, slowly, trying to stop the break in his voice. 'I'm not getting Venom back, ever, am I?'

'No,' Steve said, simply. For a long moment, there was silence, in which Tony fought the urge to vomit, or to cry. Then Steve added, 'It's nice to meet you, Tony.'

Tony nodded, and they went back to the lounge. Once he was sitting back on the couch – and _damn, he was tired –_ he asked, 'Hey, Steve, could you give me a minute?'

Steve looked concerned. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah, fine, I just...' Tony swallowed. 'I need to start making this right. Starting with Jarvis.'

Looking uncertain, but nodding anyway, Steve retreated to one of the guest bedrooms. Tony took a deep, wobbling breath, kneading his eyes. He had to do this. He needed a friend right now, if he had any left.

'Jarvis, open a programming terminal,' he said, and in front of him a holographic screen opened up, showing the complex matrix of code that made up Jarvis, along with a complete set of keyboard and input options, ghostly blue in the half-dark of the room. He had no idea what time of day it was, what the date was, he wasn't even sure of the year. He didn't know how long he had been Venom. But he did know that Jarvis had tried to warn him, and that, even when he had been lobotomised, he had found ways to resist, to stretch the strict boundaries of his programming right to the limit, to get Peter inside, to help him get the music going, to help Tony.

Tony didn't deserve it, and Jarvis deserved so much better. There was nothing Tony could do to make it up to him, but there was at least one thing he could put right.

Some part of him, some part that hadn't been totally overwhelmed by Venom, must have known it was wrong to turn Jarvis' personality off in the first place, because he hadn't deleted it or removed it altogether. It was still there, just waiting to be turned back on. Tony did so. Silence reigned.

'Hey, buddy,' he said, quietly, ashamed. 'How you feeling?'

'Mr Stark,' Jarvis said, and he sounded peeved. 'I assume from this I can say 'Welcome back, sir'?'

'Ha. Something like that.'

'I'm scanning you for any remaining traces of the symbiote,' Jarvis said, fussily.

'I'm pretty sure they got it all, J- ow!' One of the robots that usually cleaned the place had crept up beside him and pricked his arm with a needle, in a way that Tony felt was unnecessarily hard.

'I require a blood sample,' Jarvis said, nonchalantly.

'Fine, I deserved that.'

'Yes, sir.'

'I'm sorry, Jarvis.'

'From the changes in your behaviour and personality, sir, I can safely say your actions were from the Venom symbiote, not you.'

'Still, I get it if you're pissed-'

And then the sprinklers opened, and everything was drenched. Tony spluttered, and then laughed. Jarvis was undoubtedly back, and his relief was immense. Even as Steve came out, looking alarmed, to see what was going, Tony began to feel better. It was almost as if the water was waking him up after a long, long sleep, washing all of it away. He wasn't sure what the world was going to be like, without Venom. He wasn't sure what sort of man he would be.

But Tony Stark had never backed down from a challenge. He'd never left a puzzle unsolved. Somehow, he would figure it out.

'Are you sure about this?'

Tony nodded. 'Completely.'

It wasn't even a lie. He stepped forward towards the doors, but Steve caught his arm.

'Stark. _Tony_. What Venom did wasn't your fault. You don't have to do this.'

'You'd do exactly the same, Cap.'

He saw Steve's expression shift to one of reluctant acceptance and pulled his arm free. Then Steve's face changed again, softening as it always did when he thought about his son, and Tony held up a hand to stop him.

'I know, I know. You couldn't do it. You have Peter to think of.'

'So do you,' Steve said, quietly.

And it was true. Two days after he had woken up, when Steve had been sure Tony was stable, Peter had come to see him. It had been amazing, wonderful, and unbearable. Peter had been so pleased to see him, so convinced Tony was still a hero, a hero who had saved his life, given him superpowers, fought off a monster. No-one had ever been as happy to see Tony as Peter had that day. He didn't understand what had really happened, what Tony had done. Just thinking about Peter's unconditional affection made it hard to stop Tony's resolution from crumbling. What was this going to do to the poor kid?

Steve must have sensed weakness, because he added, 'He idolises you. You're his hero.'

There it was. All Tony needed to get him through this.

'I know. I think it's time I did something to earn it, don't you?'

Steve hesitated, then nodded, short and curt, a soldier accepting orders. 'I'll be here when you're done,' he said.

'Great.'

There could be no more delays. Tony pushed through the door onto the stage and was immediately assaulted by the flashes of cameras as he came and stood before the assembled press. There had been a time when he would have been introduced by a member of staff, or the head of the organisation. Now he stood there alone, waiting for the clamour to die down.

'Thank you for coming,' he said, keeping it to the point, because showboating, being charming, was so not the point of this; and because he was exhausted. 'I know there's been a lot of talk about me the last few weeks. I guess getting absorbed by a monster and rampaging through the streets will do that. I know Shield's being giving you a lot of info about Venom, what it is, what it made me do over the years, but...' he swallowed. Big announcement time. No problem, he'd done big announcements before. 'It's impossible, without a full investigation, to determine how much the Venom symbiote was responsible for, and how much was me. That's why, at the end of this statement, I will be handing myself over to the authorities.'

He'd sort of expected a big, noisy reaction, but instead everyone seemed to be slightly stunned. Tony knew it wouldn't last, and continued quickly.

'But before I do, there's some apologies I need to make. First, to the employees of Stark Industries and their families, who were out of a job overnight through no fault of their own, I'm sorry. Anyone who is still out of work, or is employed in a position that pays less than their final salary at SI, can write to me for financial compensation. And Pepper, if you're watching, I... what can I say?' He shrugged, coughed a few times to clear his throat, and continued.

'And to the families of those that Venom, Iron Man, that I hurt or killed, often on little to no pretext: they deserved better, and so do you. My apologies are meaningless, they aren't going to undo anything, but... what I, what Iron Man did, was not justice. It wasn't fair or right, and I know nothing I can do will make that better. I just hope that my, uh, momentary arrest will offer some small comfort.'

The cops were here, assembled at the side of the stage, looking like they weren't quite sure what to do. It was time to wrap up.

'I will be submitting to the authorities for arrest and trial. A trial which I am fully aware is a damn sight more than my victims got. No-one deserved to die over a stolen packet of cigarettes.' His voice cracked, and he swallowed, determined to get to the end. 'I will not be employing a lawyer unless the state insists on appointing one for me. If this is the case, I will cover the bill myself to avoid placing any more monetary burden on our legal aid system. Iron Man did not give people the opportunity to defend themselves. There will be no tricks, no bribery, just an honest investigation into what I did. Thank you.'

He was down the steps and in front of the dumbfounded cops before anyone in the audience realised that he was done. One of them finally stepped forward, cuffed him, probably read him his rights, but the room was too loud with shouted questions and excited reactions for Tony to hear. It was a relief when they shoved him through the backstage door, into the relative quiet.

Another step later, the hand disappeared from his shoulder and Tony looked back to see Steve, in Shield uniform today, pushing the cop's arm down.

'No need to push, officer,' he said. 'He's going willingly. I'm Mr Stark's Shield liaison, I'll be accompanying you while you take him in.'

With that, Steve fell silently into step beside him, a solid and reassuring presence. Tony found himself blinking back tears again – an annoying habit he'd developed since losing Venom – because he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to have anyone beside him, and yet, Steve stayed, sitting beside him in the back of the cop car, staying in the room while he was processed, and walking with him all the way to the holding cell. The pity in his face when the door was about to shut nearly broke Tony's heart.

'Don't worry, Cap,' Tony said, managing a smile that was almost convincing. 'It's the right thing to do.'

Steve nodded, biting his lip. He seemed unsure what to say.

'Stand back from the door, please,' the officer said. Tony stepped away.

'I'm proud of you,' Steve blurted, and Tony just had time to see his face flush with embarrassment before the door was shut between them.

Steve was embarrassed, but Tony couldn't work out what he felt. There was some awkwardness, sure, because Steve wasn't his dad, wasn't really anyone except his Shield-appointed guard, but... no-one had ever said that to Tony before. Ever. He'd done precious little for anyone to be proud of, but now Captain America was proud of him. _Steve_ was proud of him. A small, warm feeling spread inside him. The situation suddenly didn't seem so bad.

Tony looked around the cell. As it was used for those awaiting trial, not those already convicted, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. He had a bed, a chair, even a desk. And absolutely no tech, and nothing to do but think.

Hell. This was going to be _boring_.

They rushed the trial because of the press interest, but it still took more than three months to get to the end.

Tony had a state-appointed lawyer, a capable middle-aged woman, who he met with every day. He liked her. She understood his desire not to 'get off', but to get to the truth. She also liked puzzles, and brought him a new one every day to try and keep him occupied. True, he solved most of them in less than five seconds, but it was a kind thought.

He had a crap ton of therapy. It turned out he was a bag full of issues, some of which had nothing to do with Venom at all.

Time seemed to stretch. He even started doing press ups and sit ups, trying to burn off some of the feeling of being cooped up. He missed Jarvis, and kept finding himself talking aloud to him before remembering even Jarvis couldn't hear him here.

Every other week, when he was allowed visitors, Steve came. Eleven AM on the dot, he would be sitting and waiting, and ask the same question: 'So, how are you doing?'. He was the one that persuaded Tony to use the therapy. They both agreed Peter should not come visit, but the little boy wrote to Tony every day without fail. Sometimes the letters were about science, or about something interesting he'd found out, or what he and Steve had been doing. Once it was the entire script of _Cars 2_ laboriously written out by hand, with different coloured felt tips used for the speech of different characters, because Peter thought he was probably bored. Tony read the whole thing.

Pepper wrote to him too, and then came to visit. She had another job, and was doing well. She was glad to see him back.

Rhodes also came once or twice, even though Tony hadn't apologised to him in his speech, and spent the whole hour of his visit telling Tony what an idiot he was. Tony knew he was forgiven.

Sometimes Tony had to go to the court, or to a tribunal, and answer question after question about what Venom was, what he had done while it was on him, why he had done it. Mostly, the legal system got on with it without him. His lawyer would bring him the newspapers so he could read the updates.

Shield scientists and researchers came and explained the Venom symbiote and the effect they believed it would have on someone. Tony wondered why they were being so unusually forthcoming, but the only person he could ask was Steve, who didn't understand the question, quite happy to believe that Shield had no ulterior motive other than helping. Tony, however, knew this was valuable intel, and that normally they would have been quite happy to leave him in a deep dark pit in order to keep their secrets. Unfortunately, there was no way to know what they were up to, so he filed the question in the back of his mind and tried to just focus on what was going on in the trial.

Pepper got up one day and testified fiercely about the changes in Tony's character after he got infected, and wouldn't give the prosecution any ground when they tried to imply it was hardly a change at all. And then Steve got up there, in full Captain America uniform, in front of the eyes of the world, to testify about what he had seen, and about the fight.

Naturally, this caused a huge delay and a major shift in national attention as, in order to make Steve's testimony credible, he and Shield had to prove that yes, it was really him, yes, he was the original and yes, he had really been frozen for 70 years (but no, he had sadly not punched the real Hitler), by which time hardly anyone could remember what he had been supposed to have been testifying about in the first place. But Steve pulled them back on track, and told them everything that had happened from the day they had met (deftly avoiding the fact a four year old had super powers now), and when Tony read the transcript he was surprised, because there was so much he didn't know Steve had noticed. Every time he had had a moment of doubt, every time his better self had fought against the nature exaggerated by Venom, Steve seemed to have noticed it.

With so much time to think, Tony was uncomfortably aware that while the Venom-inspired impulse to kill Steve had completely vanished, the rest of his feelings had not. If anything, they had grown. With Venom, he had just wanted to get Steve to bed. Now he pretty much just wanted to get into Steve's bed, stay there, wake up there every morning for the rest of his life. These were feelings that, given the circumstances, kind of sucked.

In the end, the charge was seventy-two counts of causing grievous injury and eleven counts manslaughter; because while the court accepted that the murders had been greatly influenced by the symbiote Venom, there was insufficient scientific proof to completely absolve Tony of any responsibility. It was pretty much what Tony had expected, but when they met in the briefing room to wait for the sentence to be decided, Steve couldn't hold still.

'Aren't you supposed to be professional, Mr Shield Liaison Officer?' Tony asked, watching Steve pace back and forth. 'Steve. Come on, it's a fair verdict.'

'No it isn't!' Steve snarled. 'It wasn't you! You don't even remember what happened!'

'I don't remember that last afternoon,' Tony said. 'I remember the rest. I will always remember the rest.'

That, at last, stopped Steve in his tracks. 'Tony...'

'Don't. I'm okay. I have a lot of therapy.' Then he frowned. 'Wait, do I still get therapy when I'm in proper jail? I don't know how jail works. Do I have to join a prison gang? I mean, that's assuming I can find one that will take me, goodness knows I will probably be the only rich white guy in there. This country is seriously broken, I mean have you seen-'

Steve was shaking his head vigorously. 'You aren't going to jail. You can't. It's not fair.'

'Steve, they just convicted me of killing eleven people, and we both know that's probably a low estimate.'

'It wasn't your fault! This isn't right!'

Tony wasn't sure what else he could say. It wasn't that he wanted to go to jail. Actually, he felt quite sick at the prospect. What was he going to do with himself? He couldn't fight, defend himself, without Venom or the armour. He was pretty sure there were no labs in jail. And how long would he be there? Ten, twenty years? Peter would be an adult when he got out. If he got out. They could give him life. It would only be fair, the amount of lives he had taken.

But he really didn't want to go to jail. Tony took deep breaths, seriously worried he might puke again.

His lawyer came back into the room. 'The judge is ready to deliver his sentence,' she said. 'Come on, let's hear it.'

Tony nodded and followed her, Steve beside him as far as he was allowed to go, before he returned to the viewing gallery. Tony just hoped his knees would keep holding him up all the way to the end.

'This has been a complex case,' the judge said when they were all in position, 'With many people speaking passionately on your behalf. It was further confused by the Venom symbiote, which is scientifically unprecedented. Currently, although much of the jury and I myself believe it is likely you had little to no control over your actions, there is not enough legal proof to declare you innocent, and I must base my ruling on proof. However, I believe there is sufficient evidence to state that your actions were without deliberate malice, and that by submitting to the authorities before any case was made against you, you have a genuine desire to make amends.'

The judge paused for breath. Tony gripped the wooden rail of the dock, suddenly completely unsure what to expect.

'With all this in mind, I believe significant leniency in your case is justified, with a view to overturning the verdict in future should more research enlighten us about the nature and reach of Venom. Your considerable talents also shouldn't be overlooked. If you wish to contribute to society, there are better ways for a man of your skills to do so than in stamping number plates.'

Another eternal pause. How long did it take to breathe? Tony hadn't breathed at all for at least five minutes.

'I am therefore assigning you 45,000 hours – that's just over five years, for those of you not as quick at calculating as Mr Stark – of community service, to be served under the authority and supervision of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. You will serve them in whatever capacity they see fit, and to the best of your abilities, on penalty of a maximum term of imprisonment of 25 years. Your hours may be extended if, on completion of the 45,000 hours Shield or this court deems your contribution insufficient. You will, during this time, submit to regular physical and psychological testing to check for any remaining effects from the symbiote, and you will keep Shield informed of your movements at all times. You will be considered to be in their custody. In other words, you go where they tell you to go, do as they tell you, live where they tell you to live, and don't so much as pop out for a carton of milk without their approval. Understood?'

Even Tony wasn't able to process this. On the one hand, it wasn't prison. On the other hand, Shield could do much worse to him. Clearly they had made the Venom intel public for this purpose. He glanced up into the gallery, looking for Steve, but it didn't give him any answers. From the mixed expression on Steve's face, Tony guessed his reaction was much the same as his own.

'Yes, your honour.' He managed to get out.

'Good.' The gavel was tapped smartly on the bench. 'Court dismissed.'

Tony was back home, in Stark Tower, 48 hours after the trial had ended. He still didn't know what Shield was going to do with him.

Steve had caught up with him shortly after the court broke up, and told him he'd received orders to continue as Tony's 'handler' and await further instructions. And as Steve's place was tiny – if Peter grew any taller they wouldn't both have fitted – all three of them had moved to the tower. Since then, there had been nothing from Shield.

Tony had had plenty to keep him occupied, however. Just having a small child in the building seemed to take up a great deal of his time. Within six hours of Peter's arrival, where the kid had been following him around like a duckling, he'd realised that Peter's curious little eyes and hands were going to want to be in the lab, and the choice was to either ban him completely (aka the _Howard Stark Approach)_ , or introduce some safety measures. His lab floor was now covered in sprayed yellow lines marking a safe distance away from anything electrical, hot, sparky or explosive, and he'd invested in some child-size googles and protective clothing.

They spent a lot of time in the lab. Not sure what else to do with himself, Tony had gone down there to tinker, to build, to try not to think about what Shield might have him do, and Peter always came too, asking so many questions that it usually turned into a teaching session. Where Peter came, Steve came, sometimes watching the two of them, sometimes dropping into one of the chairs with a book and leaving them to it. Tony really liked those times. Peter was charming and smart and fascinated by everything, and Steve was a solid and reassuring presence that would stop anything too bad from happening. Venom wouldn't be able to get to him again, even at those times, slowly growing less frequent, when Tony wanted it to.

It would have been a different story if he had been there alone, Tony knew. With Steve and Peter there, there was no chance to feel the solitude. It was almost like his fantasy, waking up with a family there every day, except that Steve was in the spare room, in a separate bed, and motivated by orders rather than any feelings.

Still, he made pancakes for breakfast, and that was good enough for Tony.

On the morning of the third day, they were sitting at the table eating said pancakes, and Tony was trying to mentally map out the limits of Peter's powers – he could stick to stuff and clearly had some sort of super strength. Tony was less sure about Peter's insistence that he now had super speed or 'the power to jump really far' – when Jarvis announced Director Fury was coming to see them.

'Ask Peter to stay in his room, please, Jarvis,' Steve said, and Tony sort of loved that Steve was comfortable enough in his house to do that, and because he was thinking that, he didn't have any time to mentally prepare for Fury sweeping his way into the room.

'Well, isn't this cosy?' Fury said, eyeing the pancakes. He came and put a brown folder down in front of each of them. 'Orders, boys.'

Steve opened his immediately and began to read, his brow furrowing in concern. Tony drummed his fingers on the front cover of his. It was time to state his conditions.

'I'm not making weapons for you, Fury,' he said. 'I don't do that any more. And I'm not doing any studies with Venom that involve re-infecting me or anyone else. If you try to make me I'm going back to the cops and doing the twenty-five years.'

He didn't look at Steve. He couldn't. Fury snorted.

'We aren't letting you and Venom within two hundred feet of each other,' He said. 'And we're not asking for weapons. My psychologists were annoyingly insistent on that; they think you're 'unstable' and could 'kill us all' if I leave you in a room full of sabotage-able weapons. Open your file.'

Tony did. It was a contract for how his hours of service were to be completed and the conditions of his custody. These conditions basically boiled down to Steve being his live-in babysitter and having to approve all his comings and goings. Embarrassing, but it could definitely be worse. And it meant Steve and Peter would stay. Tony allowed himself a moment of happiness, before reading on to see what they actually wanted him to do.

At first it talked about 'scientific consultancy', dealing with transports, computer systems, tracking devices, threat detection, communications, and all other non-weapon aspects of a shady intelligence organisation. But then he turned the page and saw a single paragraph that, he suspected, was the real reason they had set this up.

 _Mr Stark will utilise his armour system known as IRON MAN as a full participant of THE AVENGERS INITATIVE, including all training, briefings, and active missions as required._

'You want Iron Man,' he said, 'As, what, a field agent?'

'Sir,' Steve said, putting his file down, and Tony could see his own picture there along with several others. 'What is this?'

'That, Captain,' Fury replied, 'Is the Avengers Initiative.' He turned to Tony, and actually cracked a smile. 'Welcome to Shield.'


End file.
